


Beyond the Ice and the Fire

by little0bird



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode Fix-It: s08e05 The Bells, Episode Fix-It: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Episode Fix-it, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-03-17 16:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: While a presumed-dead Jaime recuperates in Storm's End, Brienne must face the consequences of their time together in Winterfell.





	1. A Time to Mourn

**Brienne**

 

Brienne scrubbed the rough woollen cloak over her cheeks until they were nearly raw.  'Fuck Jaime Lannister,' she muttered. She'd already wasted enough tears on the bloody man.  His actions made it quite clear that he'd never truly wanted her. She'd been an amusement that he tossed aside when the siren call of Cersei grew too strong.  Brienne had no use for such men. They were weak. And Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms was not weak.

 

She straightened her shoulders and strode back into the castle, her head high, chin forward.  The path to her room was blessedly deserted, so there was no one to comment on the stray tear that tracked down her face. ' _Fuck_ Jaime Lannister,' she hissed, as she flung the door of her room open.  There was nothing left that even hinted at his presence.

 

Except for the armor.  

 

Except for Oathkeeper.

 

A trembling forefinger trailed down the breastplate of her armor.  She recalled the pleased expression on his face when he'd presented it to her.  Even now, she could see the glint in his eye when he saw her wearing it the first time.  Brienne picked up Oathkeeper, the hilt settling in her palm, the lion's head tapping her wrist.  Jaime had seemed gratified to see such a fine weapon in the hands of a skilled fighter, as it should be.  

 

She could leave them in here.  Bury them. Throw them into the sea.  Erase them from her life.

 

'But what good would that do?' she murmured, practical as ever.  

 

The Jaime that had given her both items had done so in one of his few moments of true nobility.  That Jaime would have been disappointed, if not hurt, that she would refuse to use them because of some silly emotional nonsense.  

 

'Ser Brienne.'  Podrick rapped briefly on the door, before opening it.  'Ser Ja--' He took in the sole occupant of the room, and the absence of Jaime’s meager belongings. He closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth before crossing to the armor.  'M'lady,' he said, out of habit, and began helping her don it, piece by piece until an inscrutable mask slipped over her face. Her eyes closed briefly and she picked up her sword. 'Let's go,’ she said tonelessly.

 

Ravens flew furiously between King's Landing and Winterfell in the coming weeks.  Most bore horrifying accounts of the events that had transpired, hints of a death toll too high to be borne. Brienne had little time for it.  There was too much to do at Winterfell. There were young men and women to train, an armory to sort, walls to repair. She really ought to think about formally knighting Podrick.  How Pod had come into such a steadfast character, Brienne couldn't say. He was there, half a step behind her, teaching the younger lads, and a handful of girls, the skills he'd learnt as her squire.  It may not have been swinging a sword or letting an arrow fly through the skies, but if it would keep them warm, dry, and fed, it was worth as much as the swords they would one day wear on their hip. She found a reason to keep herself occupied from the moment she awoke until she fell asleep.  She didn't want to think about _him_.  Whether he'd lived or died.  

 

And so it went as the weeks turned into months.  And Brienne only spared a thought for _him_ in her dreams.

 

At least until the day Tyrion Lannister galloped into the yard, looking haggard and wan.  Brienne was taken aback. Tyrion didn't ride, if he could avoid it. He slid off the gelding with Pod's quiet assistance, then stopped short, gazing mournfully at Brienne.  Tyrion bowed fully from the waist. 'My lady knight.'

 

Brienne inclined her head.  'My lord.'

 

'I'm nobody's lord,' Tyrion said shortly.  'Might I have a word with you in private?'

 

Brienne thumbed a lock of hair away from her eyes.  'There's nothing you can say to me that you cannot say out here.'

 

Tyrion took her callused hand between his, and slowly licked his lips, as if he needed to select his next words with care.  'Jaime is dead.'

  
Brienne tottered back a few steps, feeling as if she'd been punched in the gut, then toppled to the side, landing in the mud with a _splat_.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

**Tyrion**

 

Smoke and ash coated everything with a bitter tang.  Tyrion stumbled through the camp, looking for Davos. If he found Davos, Gendry was usually nearby.  They were huddled in cloaks, passing a wineskin back and forth. Gendry swallowed, coughed, then spat a blackened glob of spittle in the grass to the side.  'Sorry,' he muttered in a scratchy voice, holding the wineskin out to Tyrion. 'I need to get into the Red Keep,' Tyrion said quietly, before taking a swig of what proved to be rum.

 

'Same place as before?' Davos asked, seemingly interested in using a twig to clean under his remaining fingernails.

 

'Yes.'

 

Davos peered up at the sky, trying to judge the hour.  'You go first. Gendry and I'll follow you.'

 

Tyrion took another swig of rum.  It had been a long night, listening to the screams and moans of the dying and wounded.  He set off for the cove, body aching, but unable to rest until he had answers. He hadn't been willing to admit that he may never have them, but King's Landing was large, and there was a distinct possibility that Jaime and Cersei were blackened piles of ash in the streets or buried under piles of rubble.  He'd never been particularly religious. It all seemed a load of tosh and nonsense. But Tyrion found himself praying to the Seven as he never had before. He couldn't care less about Cersei. She'd wanted him dead from the moment he was born. He held on to the hope that Jaime was somehow alive. It was quickly dashed when he arrived at the cove.  The skiff was still there on the shore, and just beyond it was a body. Tyrion floundered over the rocks, sagging with relief when he realized it was Euron Greyjoy.

 

Davos came strolling into the cove, to all appearances lost in thought.  He perched on a rock next to Tyrion, and after a few minutes, they were joined by Gendry, burdened by a pack.  Tyrion said nothing, but led them into the hidden entrance.

 

It was blocked.  'Oh. No…' Tyrion moaned.  

 

Gendry shrugged, pointing to a gap between the top of the arch and the pile of debris.  'Just need to move some at the top and wiggle under the arch,' he said, handing the pack to Davos.  He clambered up the broken bricks and moved enough to slither through the opening. Davos quickly followed, astonishing Tyrion with his agility.  Davos moved a few more bricks, while Tyrion picked his way up the pile.

 

Gendry was quick.  He'd cleared pathways through the next two arches.  Tyrion was hauling himself up the third pile of rubble when he heard Gendry bellow, 'Oi!  Hurry!' Tyrion scrambled through the opening and nearly slid down the pile, skinning his palms in the process.  Gendry crouched over a battered and bruised body. 'He's barely breathing,' Gendry said. Tyrion could scarcely recognize his brother under the layers of dust, ash, and blood caked on his face. Gendry and Davos pulled out daggers and began the painstaking process of cutting off Jaime's clothes and boots.  They tried not to jostle him, but Jaime moaned piteously, especially when they had to tug his shirt away from a stab wound in his side. It was stuck inside the wound, crusted over with dried blood. Gendry inspected the clotted cut on Jaime's forehead and carefully ran his fingers over Jaime's skull. 'Got lucky.  Only a cut. Head wounds'll bleed like you're dying, but head doesn't feel broken.'

 

'Was he like this when you found him?' Tyrion panted.  

 

Gendry gestured with his chin.  'Facedown under that arch. That stupid gold hand finally did somthin' right.  He had it over his head. Probably kept his head from caving in.'

 

Davos ran his hands over one arm then the other.  'Right arm's broken. Maybe two… three places that I can tell.  Left one, too. Need to splint 'em.'

 

Gendry palmed Jaime's torso.  'Ribs…' He traced around the stab wound.  'Need to clean and stitch that before fever sets in.'

 

They each examined one of Jaime's legs.  'Someone's stabbed him in the ass,' Davos grumbled.  'Leg's broken, here.' Davos waved a hand over Jaime's thigh.  

 

'Here, too.'  Gendry buried his face in his broad hands.  'Bone's poking through.'

 

Tyrion sat in a stupor. 'How do you know all this?'

 

Davos and Gendry both gave Tyrion an incredulous look, then Davos began digging through the pack.  'Y'think people in Flea Bottom or common smugglers can afford Maesters?' Davos snorted.

 

'Or you've got a death warrent hangin' over your head,' Gendry added.  He waved a hand over Jaime. 'You learn the simple stuff. Most smith's aren't goin' to waste coppers on their apprentices when they break an arm.'  Davos handed Gendry several flat sticks and strips of cloth. The quickly splinted both of Jaime's arms and legs. 'Isn't pretty,' Davos stated, 'but it'll do for now.'  

 

Gendry unstoppered the wineskin and sloshed a good measure of rum over and in the stab wounds.  Jaime cried out, thrashing weakly, and Tyrion covered his brother's mouth with his hands. 'Shhhhh.  Shhhhh.' Tyrion looked around wildly, hoping they hadn't been heard. 'Give him somethin' to bite on,' Gendry advised.  

 

Davos pulled off a glove and stuffed it into Jaime's mouth.  'Get on with it.' Gendry carefully stitched the wounds, and with Davos' help, managed to bandage both wounds and wrap his broken ribs.  They were both shaking and sodden with sweat when it was over and Jaime was tucked under the remains of his cloak.

 

'We need to get him out of King's Landing,' Tyrion said wearily.  

 

'You need to get out of here,' Davos said.  'There's a stretcher in the pack. Gendry and I can take him to the skiff.'

 

'We'll go to Storm's End,' Gendry pronounced.  'I went down when we started the siege, got to know the people there.  It's not that far. They don't need me here, but Jon Snow needs you,' he told Davos.  'We can send a raven ahead.'

 

Tyrion got to his feet.  'Did you happen to find Cersei?'  Gendry jerked his head to his left.  Tyrion could make out the blood-red velvet of her dress.  She was buried under a pile of wreckage, and what he could see of her golden hair was hidden under a sticky layer of blood.  

 

Tyrion walked to her and stared at her body for several long moments.  He spat on her once, then turned and began to climb out of the crypt. 'Wait.'  He stopped. 'The hand. Give me that fucking hand.'

 

Davos unstrapped it and handed it up to Tyrion.  'What d'you plan to do with it?'

 

'Drop it in the street.  There's thousands of dead bodies, burnt beyond recognition.  Cersei Lannister died down here. Jaime Lannister died in the streets.'  Tyrion reached into his doublet and tossed a bag of coins at Gendry. 'For his care.'

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

**Jaime**

 

If Jaime felt anything it was pain.  Everything hurt. By rights, he ought to be dead.  He'd meant to die in the Red Keep with Cersei, if for no other reason than to ensure she actually died.  He knew what she was. Tyrion had been right. He'd always known. So many terrible things he had done at her urging. It might as well have been her hands that committed the deeds as well as his own. He managed to open his eyes just enough to make out bedposts, carved from dark wood, before shutting them again.  Maybe he really was dead, and his place in the Seven Hells revolved around pain. Until he atoned for his sins, perhaps. Or forever. Either way, Jaime didn't care. It was nothing less than he deserved.

 

'I know you're conscious,' drawled a familiar voice.  

 

'Tyrion?' Jaime rasped.  Hell might not be so bad if he had his little brother’s company. Tyrion had never made him feel inadequate or felt anything for him other than unconditional love. He felt the cool rim of a pewter cup press against his mouth, and a trickle of honeyed water flowed into his mouth.  It was then he realized he was alive. Jaime swallowed greedily, whimpering in protest as Tyrion took the cup away. 'Enough,' Tyrion murmured soothingly. 'Not too much at once.' Jamie opened his eyes to mere slits. 'Why didn't you let me die? I should have died with her.' Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and dripped down the sides of his face, dampening the rough linen pillowslip under his head.  

 

Tyrion's face swam into focus.  'You very nearly did. You tried.  For the last two months, you've tried.  But I owe you my life, so I refuse to comply with your wishes.  For now. When you've recovered, my debt will be paid, and your life is yours to do with as you please.'  Tyrion held the cup to Jaime's mouth again and let a bit more dribble over his tongue. 'Although, technically, you _are_ dead.'  Jaime's eyes flicked to meet Tyrion's, brows drawn together in a frown.  'Officially, Jaime Lannister is dead. Burnt to ash in King's Landing. How you managed to survive, I don't know.  Gods must not be through with you yet. That ridiculous golden hand was left behind, and nobody had the time or energy to do a more thorough search.'

 

'Convenient.'

 

'Quite.'

 

Jaime tried to sit up, but he was immobile.   _Of course I am.  Repayment for injuring the Stark boy, regardless of what he said._  'Why can't I move?'

 

'Broken bones take time to heal.  You had… many. And so do unused muscles.  And multiple stab wounds. You haven't been fully conscious for nearly two months.  You've only had honeyed water or very weak broth since you arrived here. Healing is going to be a long process, I'm afraid.'  Tyrion held up the cup inquiringly. ‘You really are a cat. How many lives do you have left?’

 

‘Hopefully this is my last.’  Jaime could hear the roar of the sea from the window of the room.  'Where are we?'

 

'Storm's End.  Gendry kindly offered shelter and sanctuary.  And since you're officially dead, nobody will come looking for you. Any passing resemblance to the late, not very lamented Jaime Lannister, we can pass off as you being one of Father’s bastards.  It’s entirely plausible he had a few, so why not pass you off as one?’

 

Jaime closed his eyes and carefully turned Tyrion's words over in his mind. 'So I've lost everything.  Including my name.'

 

'Not everything,' Tyrion retorted.

 

A corner of Jaime's mouth lifted slightly.  'Except for you.' He exhaled slowly. 'Tired,' he mumbled and slipped back into the blessed black of unconsciousness.


	2. A Time to Reap

**Jaime**

 

Gendry stacked the pillows against the headboard and gently settled Jaime against them. Jaime squinted slightly and peered out of the window. It was a clear day at Storm’s End, and he could make out an emerald smudge on the horizon. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

 

Gendry spared a glance out of the window. ‘The island of Tarth, m’lord.’

 

‘My name is Jaime,’ Jaime muttered. ‘Or Ser Jaime, if you insist on formality.’   He gave Gendry a deprecating grin. ‘If we’re being completely honest, I should call you my lord, and you should just call me Jaime.’

 

Gendry snorted. ‘Still not used to it. Someone calls me m’lord and I look round for someone else.’  He rounded the bed and perched on Jaime’s right side, then slid a hand under the stump and delicately lifted it, cradling it between his hands.  'Does it pain you?'

 

'Not really.  Sometimes.'

 

'Ever use a hook?'

 

'No.'  

 

'Be more useful than that hand you had.'

 

'I imagine it would.'  Truth be told, Jaime didn't miss the golden hand at all.  It was often more of a hindrance than anything else. He'd wanted a hook, but Cersei had insisted on the hand, and he was too weary -- physically and emotionally --  from the journey to argue. Gendry grunted, then laid the stump back on the blanket. 'I'll see what I can do, Ser Jaime.' He slid off the bed and strode from the room, nodding at Tyrion.

 

'Good morning, brother,' Tyrion said, climbing into the chair placed next to the bed.  Jaime murmured an indistinct greeting, staring at the distant shore of Tarth. Tyrion followed Jaime's gaze.  'Ah.' He arranged himself into a more comfortable position.

 

'How is she?' Jaime asked tentatively.

 

'Who?'

 

'Don't play coy with me.'

 

Tyrion rubbed a finger over the cover of the book in his lap.  'She's well enough,' he said carefully.

 

'She very likely despises me.  She has every reason to,' Jaime admitted.  'Do you know where she is?'

 

'Still in the North.'  

 

Jaime chewed his lower lip.  'Good.' Westeros was a large place.  Their paths might never cross again.

 

'Do you truly miss Cersei?' Tyrion asked curiously.

 

'What makes you think I do?'

 

'You were delirious the first few weeks.  You talked a lot. Everyone else discounted it as the ravings of a fevered mind.'

 

Jaime slowly flexed the fingers of his hand.  'She was my twin. We came into the world together and I meant to leave it with her.'

 

'Oh, don't spout that nonsense at me.  That's Cersei talking.'

 

'Piss off,' Jaime muttered.

 

'No.'  Tyrion stood on the chair and loomed over Jaime.  'You think with your emotions. You always have. Your first reaction is always driven by emotion.  She knew it. And she used it to manipulate you into doing what she wanted.'

 

'That's not true,' Jaime spluttered.

 

Tyrion laughed sardonically.  'It is. And you know it is, you just don’t want to admit it.’'  He leaned over and grasped Jaime's chin in one hand, forcing him to meet his eyes.  'One of the great joys of being me is that no one paid me any mind when I was small.  They just all hoped I would fall into the sea and drown. I saw what she did. She took Father's words to heart: family first.'  Tyrion's hand tightened. 'And look where it's gotten us. The Lannister name is no more.' Jaime jerked his head to the side and turned away from Tyrion.  'It was Lannisters first with her in everything. There wasn't a man good enough to fuck her, so she went to you. Family first. Family is everything. She didn't want Robert Baratheon to father her children, so she convinced you it was best to sire them.  And look what happened. The gods didn't only flip coins for the Targaryens when they mated. They flipped a coin every time she birthed a child.'

 

'Get out.'

 

Tyrion snickered.  'Are you going to make me?'  Jaime flushed with humiliation.  He could barely sit up for more than a few hours at a time.  'Need I remind you how much blood is on her hands? She is cruel and vindictive in a way that put even our father to shame!  She beat and tortured countless people. She vowed to send Lannister troops to the North to fight the dead, but was lying the entire time.  She accused me of a crime she knew I didn't commit. Because of her, Ellaria Sand poisoned Myrcella. She used wildfire to blow up the Great Sept.  Do you know how many innocent people died so she could stop a rebellion _she_ started?' Tyrion shouted.  'She wanted to get rid of Margery and Loras Tyrell.  She was jealous of Margery's place in Tommen's heart and she wanted to destroy Loras so she didn't have to marry him.  So she starts a religious war. All conveniently behind the scenes, of course. And then she got caught in its web. And she murdered hundreds, if not thousands of innocents.  No one pushed Tommen out of a window, but she might as well have. Your son's blood was on her hands!'

 

'Shut.  Up.'

 

'No.  You're going to listen to me for once in your life.  You can't be the stupidest Lannister forever. There aren't enough of us.'  Tyrion stood for a moment, chest heaving. 'You say you love her. But let me ask you this: was it really love or was it a creature Cersei created and nurtured for nearly forty years?'  And did she love you in return? Truly love you? Nothing you ever did was good enough for her. When you finally returned home after Catelyn Stark released you, what did Cersei say to you?'

 

'You took too long…' Jaime quoted softly.

 

'You came home missing a hand, and she rejected you because you were no longer her perfect, golden, Lannister lion.  If it had been you that died in King's Landing, would she have mourned you the way you've mourned her?' Jaime was silent.  'I didn't think so,' Tyrion said flatly. 'When you'd outlived your usefulness to her, she would have cast you aside. Because in the end it was always Cersei first.  You have always been a better person without her whispering her poison into your ear. Even so, when the time came, you joined in the fight for the living, while Cersei let Euron fucking Greyjoy warm her bed.'  Jaime kept his face turned toward the wall. 'If it had been Cersei with you when Roose Bolton's men captured you, she would have spread her legs for them.'

 

'Stop it,' Jaime choked.

 

'Oh, she may have put up a token protest,' Tyrion continued ruthlessly, 'but you know as well as I that if it would have served a purpose for _her_ , she would have allowed every man there to fuck her.  You know it and I know it.' Tyrion's hands clenched around the back of the chair.  'There are people who think you're beyond redemption. Maybe they're right. Maybe you really are like Cersei.'  Tyrion slid off the chair and stalked to the door while delivering his last barb. 'Ser Brienne was a fool to believe you are a good man.'

 

**Brienne**

 

Years of traveling with Brienne had given Podrick a level of intimacy with her body that would have surprised other people, given his position as her squire.  He knew how well her clothes and armor fit. He knew her appetite and which foods she favored. He knew her sleep patterns. He could even accurately predict when she would have her blood.  

 

In the weeks after Ser Jaime had left Winterfell, she ate very little.  And Brienne usually enjoyed her food. She retired to her chamber immediately after supper to sleep.  Podrick had had to rouse her some mornings, which he found odd. She was usually awake before sunrise.  All that he could chalk up to the pace at which she drove herself to rebuild Winterfell's defenses. Lately, the seams of her jerkin and tunic strained at the waist.  The lacings of her tunic gaped over her breasts. She'd slowly regained interest in meals, but pork made her turn green and leave the table in a hurry. The last time there had been pork for a meal, she'd barely made it into the courtyard before vomiting up what little she'd eaten.  Podrick knew Brienne would probably punch him if he voiced his suspicions to her.

 

It was time to seek a higher authority.

 

He knocked on the door of the lord's chambers -- lady's chambers now, he supposed -- and waited for a maid to answer.  To his surprise, the lady Sansa herself opened the door. 'Podrick. How can I help you?'

 

Podrick gestured to the room behind Sansa.  'Could we talk privately, m'lady?'

 

'Of course.'  Sansa stood back and waved a hand at one of the chairs set before the fire.  She closed the door and joined Podrick. 'What seems to be the problem, Pod?'

 

'It's not me, m'lady,' Podrick began.  'It's Ser Brienne…' He shifted in the chair.  'Can I be frank, m'lady?'

 

'You can.'

 

'I think she's pregnant,' Podrick said bluntly.

 

Sansa blinked.  'How do you know?'

 

'I'm her squire, m'lady,' Podrick replied simply, as if it explained everything.

 

'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

 

'Squires are sometimes personal servants to their knight, as much as the knight will allow.  Ser Brienne doesn't allow much, but I paid attention. I know her and her habits better than anyone in this castle.'  Podrick leaned forward. 'Begging your pardon, m'lady, but…' Podrick gulped. 'She hasn't bled since before the battle.'

 

Sansa exhaled slowly.  'I see.' She fixed Podrick with a puzzled look.  'So why are you telling me this?'

 

'She won't like it if I tell her any of this.'

 

'You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions on how I might bring it up?' Sansa asked.

 

Podrick chuckled.  'Well, any way you want.  She wouldn't punch _you_.  Ser Brienne's sworn to protect you.'

 

Sansa rubbed her temples.  'Is that supposed to be comforting?'  She smoothed the hair back from her face.  'Do you think she'd punch you if you told her I wanted to see her tonight after supper?'

 

'I doubt it.'

 

'Then I'll see her in her chamber.''

 

Podrick sagged in relief.  'Thank you, m'lady.'

 

*****

 

Brienne sat in a chair near the window, a growing sense of unease roiling her belly.  She got up paced around the room's perimeter, then plopped back into the chair. Someone knocked on her door, and Brienne lurched to her feet and crossed the room in three long strides, then yanked it open.  Sansa smiled. 'May I come in?' Brienne stepped aside to allow Sansa and another woman into the room, and then stood awkwardly in the corner. Without her armor, she felt less sure of herself, and Sansa's mysterious visit baffled her.  She tugged at the lacings of her jerkin, wishing she could unlace it and do it up again. 'My lady,' Brienne murmured.

 

Sansa indicated a chair.  'May I sit?'

 

Flustered, Brienne nodded.  'Please.'

 

'Oh, just fucking get on with it, Sansa,' Sansa muttered, shocking Brienne.  She'd never heard Sansa curse before. 'Pod thinks you're pregnant,' Sansa said.  

 

Brienne burst into laughter.  'That is one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard.'  She sank to the edge of her bed, snorting with mirth.

 

'When was the last time y'bled?' the other woman asked.

 

'Who are you?' Brienne asked, knowing she was being rude, but the other woman's presence rattled her.

 

'This is Eira.  She's the midwife,' Sansa replied.

 

Eira repeated the question.  'When was the last time y'bled, girl?'

 

Brienne sat back.  'I don't know…'

 

'Since the battle?  Before the battle?' Sansa prompted.  

 

Brienne's eyes unfocused slightly.  'Before,' she said slowly. 'A week before…'

 

'Lie back, girl,' Eira said.  

 

'It's Ser Brienne,' Brienne corrected.

 

'Either way lie back.'  Eira sighed. 'Lift your shirt, there's a good lass.'  Brienne complied, a line deepening between her brows. Eira's hands pressed gently into her abdomen.  'Feel anything? Like y'had soap bubbles poppin' in your belly?'

 

'Y-yes…'  Brienne's lips felt stiff.  'All the time it seems.'

 

'Quickening.'  Eira gently smoothed Brienne's tunic back down, and Brienne sat up.  'Well, then Ser Brienne, seems that Lannister boy put a child in your belly before he got himself killed.'

 

Brienne's eyes flicked back and forth between Sansa and Eira.  ‘But I don’t want this,’ Brienne stated. ‘I’ve never wanted this.’

 

Eira eyed Brienne’s middle. ‘I can give y'something.  Try and get rid of it. There's herbs that'll do it. Bit late for it, though,’ she pronounced. ‘Might be the end of you as well.’  Brienne felt the blood drain from her face.

 

Sansa moved to sit next to Brienne. ‘You've done it before?’ she asked Eira.

 

‘Oh, I have.  A fair few times.  Can count on one hand how many women survived.’

 

‘We can find a family,’ Sansa ventured.  ‘After the birth. We can give them the baby, and you won’t have to concern yourself with it.’  Brienne turned her gaze to Sansa. ‘If the family is in the North, I can see that the child is well-cared for.’

 

Brienne stared pensively at the toes of her boots. ‘Must I decide this very moment?’

 

Sansa shook her head. ‘No.’

 

Brienne stood up abruptly. ‘Thank you, my lady.’  Sansa rose smoothly from the bed and led Eira from the room.  Brienne closed and bolted the door as soon as Eira's skirts cleared the door frame.

 

She stood in the middle of her chamber, torn between shame and hysteria, emotions she had no use for.  She had always found the few days of her monthly bleeding to be more of an annoyance than anything else, and in the grind of activity since the armies left Winterfell, hadn't missed it.  She knew what it all meant, of course. The septa in Evenfall had drilled it into her, because it was her duty to bear heirs for her future husband. One hand covered her mouth as the realization dawned that she'd most likely been pregnant when Jaime left.  'Fuck Jaime Lannister,' she muttered. She paced around the small room, needing to do something so she didn't start screaming. Out of habit, she added a few sticks of wood to the fire, then unlaced the jerkin, pulling it off and dropping it over the back of a chair.  She did the same with her tunic, the long strip of linen she'd used to bind her breasts, and then removed her boots and then pulled off her breeches and smalls. Once Brienne was completely naked, her hands rose and cupped her breasts. They had always been small in proportion to the rest of her body, and she’d never had to bind them. _Until now_ , she mused. They were fuller, heavier.  Her thumbs brushed over the nipples. They were achingly sensitive. Her hands moved further down, over her belly.  She looked down and frowned. She didn’t _look_ pregnant. Just as if she’d had far more than her share of rabbit pie, but she imagined that would change soon enough.  Brienne felt a flutter under her hands. The same flutter she’d dismissed as gas just that morning. _Quickening_ , the midwife had called it.

 

Brienne slid into bed and curled around one of the pillows.  Sansa's solution was the sensible one, but people were imperfect, as Brienne well knew.  Cared for wasn't loved. Between the end of the battle and the night he'd left, Jaime had spoken of his childhood from time to time.  He'd certainly been well-cared for. He'd never gone hungry. Always had warm clothing on his back and shoes on his feet.  The finest of everything Lannister gold could purchase. But never the love of a parent. Brienne's father had loved her. Enough to see she would never fit into the traditional mold of a lady and taught her how to fight.  Enough to outfit her with armor and a sword. Enough to let her be who she was and not who he wanted her to be.

 

She buried her face into the pillow.  It had been Jaime's while he shared her bed.  The scent of him had faded, but Brienne could still recall it.  Horses, leather, the sweat of exertion. The soap used in Winterfell's baths.   _In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.  In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent…_  Brienne didn't take vows lightly.  

 

Was it just to hand her child over to another person to raise, because of the circumstances of its conception?  To allow it to face the inevitable questions about its paternity with no real answers?  Was it brave to let someone else tell Jaime Lannister's story?

 

 _Defend the innocent_.

 

Must children pay for the mistakes of their parents?  Was she the kind of person who would lay the sins -- both real and perceived -- of Jaime Lannister on the head of an innocent child?  Of course not. She was better than that.

 

When the sun rose, Brienne dressed, and made her way to the hall.  She found Sansa poring over a ledger, a half-eaten roll at her elbow.  'My lady,' Brienne said quietly, bowing. Sansa looked up and laid down the quill.  Brienne met her inquiring gaze. 'I thank you for your offer, but no. I took a vow to defend the innocent.'  One hand splayed across her belly. 'The child is an innocent, and I won't force it to pay for my mistakes. Or for his.'  


	3. A Time to Break Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Jaime-centric chapter this time.

**Jaime**

 

The pressure in his bladder intensified.  Jaime chewed his bottom lip, and glanced at the clay pot in the corner.  He'd been able to walk to it yesterday, albeit with a great deal of assistance.  He eyed the room, strategizing. Perhaps he could use the bed to brace himself. There were a few steps between the foot of the bed and the wall.  He could possibly manage them. It couldn't have been more than three or four. Maybe five. Jaime spared a glance for the bell next to his bed. He could use that.  Summon someone to help him to the pot and stand tactfully aside while he pissed. At least now he could hold his own cock to piss and wipe his arse. 

 

He pushed the blankets to the side and slowly swung his feet to the floor, gritting his teeth against the urge to piss.  The bed was high enough that Jaime didn't have to do much to stand. He swayed for a moment, then gripped the bed with his hand, shuffling forward a few inches at a time, stopping every few steps to will his body to  _ not  _ piss.  He got to the foot of the bed and released the blankets.  He lurched forward one step, then two. He let himself smile with a sense of triumph.

 

Then promptly crumpled to the floor.  

 

'Fuck,' Jaime muttered, as he felt his bladder release.  He smacked his fist onto the footboard of the bed. 'Fuck!' he shouted, frustrated by the slow pace of his recuperation.  'Fuck, fuck…  _ fuck _ .'  

 

How long he lay there, he didn't know.  Long enough to begin shivering from the effects of soaked clothes and a cold stone floor.  

 

Jaime spent a few minutes contemplating whether to scream or give in to weeping.  He'd rarely been in a state of such helplessness. Even when Locke had cut off his right hand, Jaime had been able to function.  To take a piss without help. He'd had Brienne kicking him in the arse the entire way then. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the fact he smelled like a chamberpot, and amused himself with imagining how she'd handle the situation.  She'd haul him upright, strip off his clothes, wash him, then dress him in something clean and dry, grumbling all the while under her breath, comparing him unfavorably to Podrick. Cersei would have left him there, stinking and miserable.  

 

'Ser Jaime?'  

 

Jaime lifted his head at the sound of Davos' voice.  'Down here.'

 

Davos took in the situation, then maneuvered Jaime into a sitting position, then got a shoulder under one of Jaime's armpits, flinging Jaime's arm around his neck, then lifted him to standing.  He eased Jaime into one of the chairs, and gave the younger man a stern look. 'What happened?'

 

'I needed to piss,' Jaime sighed.  'And I didn't want to call anyone to carry me to the damn pot,' he added, plucking at his damp pants.  He fixed his eyes on a spot on the footboard, blinking back tears of humiliation. It was one thing to sit in your own shit because you were chained to a pole.  It was quite another to simply be unable to walk to a bloody chamber pot. 

 

Davos merely clapped Jaime on the shoulder and murmured, 'I'll be back shortly.'  He walked out of the room, and Jaime wondered what it would have been like to have had a man like Davos for a father, instead of Tywin Lannister, who belittled every choice Jaime had ever made.  

 

Davos returned with a bucket filled with steaming water.  'Can you do this yourself or should I stay nearby if y'want some help?'

 

'Stay,' Jaime admitted reluctantly.  Davos nodded once and dug through a trunk for clean clothes and tossed them on the bed.  He settled on the edge, humming a bawdy tavern song to himself. 

 

Jaime managed to pull the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor.  He eased off the pants with a moue of distaste. They landed on the floor next to his shirt with a  _ splat _ .  Davos poured some of the warm water  into a basin and set it on the table next to Jaime, added a bit of soap, and then dropped a cloth into the warm water.  He resumed his seat on the bed, still humming. 

 

Jaime gathered the cloth in his hand and squeezed out most of the water, and began to scrub it over every part he could reach with his hand, pausing every so often to dip the cloth into the water again.  He held it out to Davos. 'I don't suppose I could ask you to…?' He gestured to his back. Davos took the cloth and briskly scrubbed Jaime's back. 'Must be galling for a young man like yourself to need to even ask.'

 

Jaime chuckled.  'I'm not that young.'

 

'Everyone younger than me is young,' Davos retorted.  He reached back for the clean shirt and held it out to Jaime, who managed to shrug into it.  Davos picked up the pants. Jaime sighed. 'I'll need help with those. It was hard enough with one hand before…'  he trailed off, feeling the shameful flush creep up his chest and neck. 

 

'It isn't a sin to ask for help when you need it,' Davos knelt to help Jaime slip the pants over his feet then work them up his legs and hips.  'Back into bed with you,' he said. Jaime waved off the proffered hand, and pushed himself to his feet. He lunged forward, barely catching himself on the bed, and then heaved himself into it.  He fell back against the pillows. 'Thank you,' he murmured. 

 

'Ach…'  Davos threw the water from the basin out of the window, then sluiced some of the water left in the bucket over the floor where Jaime's had fallen.  He mopped it up with Jaime's soiled clothes, then tossed them to soak in the remaining water.  Tyrion came into the room, bearing a flagon of wine and three cups.  Davos held up the bucket. 'I'll just take these to the laundry then.'  

 

'Ser Davos?' Jaime toyed with the edge of the sheet.  'Thank you.'  Davos grunted and ducked his head in response, and left.  

 

Tyrion set the cups on the table next to Jaime's bed and poured wine into each of them.  'I've asked Davos to join us for a drink, if you don't mind. I asked Gendry as well, but the boy said he had something to finish before we leave tomorrow.'  Tyrion held a cup out to Jaime. 'She was never pregnant, you know,' he began. 

 

'I know.'  Jaime took in Tyrion's incredulous expression.  'I'm not quite that stupid. I have seen her pregnant before.'  Tyrion continued to stare. 'How far along would she be before she knew for sure she was pregnant?' Jaime asked.  'A few months?' He shrugged. 'It took me three weeks to ride to Winterfell. I was there for a month. And then another three weeks to ride back to King's Landing.  If she'd ever been pregnant with my child, she would have been… what? Five? Six months gone? I dragged her to the crypt. I knew her body better than nearly anyone.  She kept crying about wanting our child to live, but she was lying. If there was a child, it wasn't mine. It was Euron Greyjoy's. And who knows? She might have been lying about carrying his child, too,' Jaime said dully.  He seemed surprised to find the cup in his hand and swallowed half the wine. 'I have had a lot of time to think about what you said about Cersei.' He swallowed the rest of the wine and held his cup out for more. 'I'm going to regret this when I'll need to piss in the middle of the night,' he commented, lifting the cup to his mouth.  'We should have known.'

 

Tyrion's head fell back against the back of the chair.  'She was always good at using the truth to tell lies,' he said.  'It's what you said.'

 

'She always loved her children.  And she knew we knew that.'

 

Tyrion shook his head.  'I'm losing my touch. I could always see through her.'

 

Jaime peered into his cup.  'Maybe we should stop drinking.'  He met Tyrion's eyes and they burst into laughter.  Jaime took a deep breath. 'You weren't wrong about her.  Or me.'

 

'And how does that make you feel?' Tyrion intoned, swirling the wine in his cup.

 

'Rather unmoored,' Jaime confessed.  'It's as if…' He glanced at Tyrion. 'Don't laugh,' he warned. 

 

'Never.'

 

'The last bit that made me Jaime Lannister is gone.  It feels the same as it did when I lost my sword hand.'

 

Tyrion smiled.  'You are luckier than you will ever know.'

 

'I don't feel very lucky.'

 

'You get a second chance.  You don't have to live up to anyone's expectations save you own.  You could grow grapevines and make wine or breed horses. You are able to be  _ you _ and not what our father thought you should be.'

 

'I suppose…'  Jaime sipped his wine.

 

Tyrion leaned forward and squeezed Jaime's wrist.  'You get a second chance,' he repeated. 'Don't fuck it up.'

 

'I'll do my best.'  Jaime studied Tyrion.  'You look different.' Tyrion was dressed in the manner of the Starks: leather, wool, and linen in muted browns and greys and black.  He'd pinned a direwolf sigil to his jerkin. 

 

Tyrion briefly touched the sigil.  'Our father never thought I was a Lannister.  So when the king declared my marriage to Sansa was still valid and suggested I might want to return to Winterfell with her after the coronation, it was less of a leap than I thought to swear fealty to my wife's family.  She will be the Lady of Winterfell, and I am a hanger-on,' Tyrion drawled. 'If we are so blessed as to have children, they will be Starks.'

 

'That means you'd have to actually consummate it,' Jaime pointed out with a snicker.  He tapped his cup against Tyrion's. 'House Lannister is officially no more.' He drank deeply.  

 

Tyrion copied his actions, then refilled their cups.  'I don't know when I'll see you again, so I have to ask.' He fixed Jaime with a penetrating glare.   'What made you leave Winterfell?' Tyrion inquired idly.  'You seemed content enough. More than I've ever seen you.'

 

Jaime slouched a little.  'Sansa said she wanted to see Cersei executed,' Jaime mumbled.  'I couldn't live with everyone thinking I'm so bloody honorable, when every terrible thing I've ever done was for Cersei.  If she was going to be executed, then my head should be next to hers on a pike.' He rubbed his hand over his face. 'And I couldn't face Brienne, because she is so bloody righteous it physically hurts.  So I tried to leave in the middle of the night while she slept.' His face twisted at the memory of Brienne begging him to stay, the sound of her weeping following him into the night.  'I'd hoped it would be kinder to just…' Jaime made a cutting gesture with his stump. 'Leave.' He drained the cup. 

 

'And was it?'

 

'No,' Jaime said harshly.  


	4. A Time to Be Born

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An all Brienne chapter.

**Brienne**

 

Aside from her burgeoning body, Brienne could largely ignore the impending birth of her child.  Even when the delicate flutters turned into discernable kicks and nudges. Even when piles of impossibly tiny gowns, socks, and padded linen squares began to appear in her chamber, followed by a cradle made from a soldier pine, alternating suns and crescent moons carved around the sides.

 

She was less successful when the castle slept.  The kicks that she shoved from her mind during the day were harder to ignore while lying in bed.  They made it real.

 

And it terrified her.

 

Brienne had never spent much time around small children, much less babies.  She hardly remembered the two sisters who had died before their first name days.  She didn't know what do with a baby. They were small, messy things that made a great deal of noise.  Intellectually, she understood the entire process of childbirth. The Evenfall septa had made sure of it.  The septa had seemed to enjoy informing Brienne that it would involve an unholy amount of pain. Young Brienne had scoffed at that.  She had once fought with one of the squires while nursing three broken ribs. Older Brienne welcomed pain. It meant she was still alive.

 

And Brienne was afraid of dying.

 

One of the few things she clearly remembered about her mother was how she died.  Giving birth to her younger sister. Brienne had been escorted in to admire the new baby when her mother began to bleed.  Brienne had been shoved unceremoniously into the corner and watched wide-eyed while her mother grew weaker and weaker, then died, the bedding soaked with her blood.  The baby had followed their mother to the grave soon after.

 

Ever since the midwife had informed Brienne she carried a child, the fear and terror lurked just below the surface.  She could tamp it down during the daylight. It bubbled to the surface when she slid into bed and everything around her stopped.  

 

And there was Jaime.

 

She nurtured the part of her that was still enraged that he'd left Winterfell, convinced he was no better than that vituperative viper he called a sister.  She wanted to hate him, so she could forget him. But how could she when she felt the nudge of a small foot against her palm? She knew he'd respected her and could almost convince herself that he'd loved her, even for a fleeting moment.

 

Would she be able to love the child, apart from its father?  What if the child was ashamed of her? Embarrassed that she wasn't a lady?  Brienne covered her face with her hands. And it would be a bastard. Would the child ever forgive her for her moment of weakness?  She'd been so startled at first, that Jaime wanted _her_ , that she hadn't given a second thought to what might happen.  Later, she'd reveled so in the feel of having him inside her, that she only wanted to think about the next time.  

 

Could she ever go home?  How would her father react when she disembarked, carrying Jaime Lannister's bastard in her arms?  No one would ever marry her before, now no one ever would. She was his heir, and she would bear a bastard that could never be hers.  

 

In the darkest hours of the night, she allowed her mind to drift toward other concerns.  It was impossible for her to ignore the baby's siblings. _Half-siblings_ , she silently corrected.  Especially Joffery. Brienne had never known another human to take as much joy in hurting people -- physically, emotionally, psychologically -- until she'd met Joffery Baratheon.  The idea that she might bring a child into the world as vicious and inhumane as he had been made her blood run cold.

 

And she had no one to whom she could voice these fears.

 

So she murmured them into the darkness, hoping Jaime heard them.

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne sat on a crate, legs spread to accommodate the bulge of her belly.  A line of pages clustered in front of her with the shaggy ponies common to Northern children. Brienne held a carved wooden horse in one hand, and a narrow strip of cloth in the other while she demonstrated various forms of hobbles.  The baby chose that moment to start turning flips. Brienne glanced up to find one of the boys staring at her tunic while it rippled. Suppressing a sigh, Brienne leaned back and grabbed a longbow. She hooked it neatly around the boy's ankles, yanking his feet out from under him, so he landed on his arse in the mud.  'Pay attention,' she barked. 'You need to know this so you don't lose your horses in the middle of the countryside and the nearest inn is miles away. Ask Podrick what that's like.' She let her scowl deepen while she glared at the hapless page for a moment. 'Who can show me how to do a twist hobble?' she asked.

 

One rawboned girl jumped up and down, splattering mud over anything within a few feet of her.  'I can!' Brienne handed the toy horse and the cloth. 'The rest of you gather round,' Brienne said.  'Toril, go ahead.' The girl deftly twisted the cloth around the wooden hooves and held the horse up for Brienne's approval.  'Very good,' Brienne said, and Toril preened. Praise from Brienne was hard to come by. Brienne reached for a sack and pulled out a hobble.  'Everyone come get a hobble, and try it on your pony.'

 

Hoofbeats clattered on the road leading to the gate.  Brienne looked over her shoulder, ready to shove the pages behind her.  It was only Sansa, returning from Jon Snow's coronation, Tyrion in tow.

 

A gust of wind blew Brienne's loose clothing against her, revealing her pregnancy.  

 

Tyrion's eyes widened, and he slid off his horse, climbing down from the mounting block in a daze.  Tyrion slowly walked toward Brienne and held up a hand. 'May I?' he asked in a strangled voice. Brienne looked at him with a shuttered expression, then nodded silently.  Tyrion laid his palm against the side of her belly and the baby shoved back. Tyrion snatched his hand back as if he'd been burned. 'Jaime's?' he whispered. Brienne swallowed and nodded once more.  'I did not anticipate this,' Tyrion breathed.

 

'Nobody did,' Brienne sighed.  

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

'What?' Brienne snapped.  Podrick was looking at her strangely.  

 

Podrick hesitated.  'M'lady, I think it's time you stand down and let us take care of you,' he gulped.

 

Brienne arched her back, knuckles digging at the base of her spine.  No matter how she stood or sat, her back ached, and it was much worse this morning. She couldn't deliver this child soon enough.  'And why would I need to do that?' Podrick bit his lip and coughed, giving her breeches a significant look. 'Oh, spit it out, Pod.  I can't see my feet, much less what I'm wearing.'

 

Podrick cleared his throat.  'I believe your waters have broken, m'lady, and the babe is on its way.'

 

Brienne's fist clenched.   _Fuck Jaime Lannister_.  If it hadn't been for him…  No. She had been a willing and enthusiastic participant.  

 

Podrick grabbed one of the girls training with them.  'Go find Lady Sansa. Tell her we need the midwife for Ser Brienne.'  He gave the girl a none-too-gentle push toward the door of the hall. He hauled one of the boys to his feet.  'Get the septa. Tell her to come to Ser Brienne's room. Immediately.' The children scampered off and Podrick offered his arm to Brienne.  'M'lady…'

 

Brienne shot him a look of contempt.  'I _can_ walk.'  Podrick rolled his eyes and trailed after her.  The first pain washed over her as they entered the hall.  Brienne's knees buckled and her shoulder collided painfully with the wall.  Podrick's hands clutched at her upper arms in an attempt to steady her, lest she fall down.  He wasn't sure he could get her upright again. 'Get off me,' Brienne growled, shaking off his hands.  She lurched for the staircase, slowly climbing one riser at a time.

 

The room was already a hive of activity.  Buckets of water stood by the hearth. Maids brought in armfuls of hay and spread them over the floor, then covered it with old horse blankets.  Brienne frowned with dismay. It looked as if it was going to be a messy business, and she despised mess. 'Ser Brienne?' A maid reached for the laces of Brienne's tunic.  Brienne slapped her hands away. 'I can do it myself,' she said flatly.

 

'Yes, m'lady.'

 

'I'm not a lady,' Brienne said through clenched teeth.  She yanked at the laces of her tunic and pulled it over her head, then patted blindly for the laces of her loose breeches under the rounded bulge of her belly, and tugged until the knot unraveled and they pooled at her feet.  Brienne snatched the bedgown the maid held out and pulled it on with jerky movements. It billowed around her knees. 'Now what?' she sighed.

 

The maid held up her hands in resignation.  'We wait. Babies come in their own time, m'lady.'

 

Brienne huffed an irritable _tcha_ and lowered her ungainly body into a chair.  It was just as well _he_ wasn't here.  If she'd repulsed him at all before, she certainly would now.

 

The next pain forced the air from her lungs and she bent forward, fingers digging into the arms of the chair, lips pressed together tightly to muffle the groan that rose unbidden in her throat. Even though Brienne scarcely remembered her, she found she irrationally wanted her mother right now.

 

The maid knelt in front of her.  'It's all right to shout or scream, m'lady.'

 

Brienne thrust her face forward as far as she could manage, given the bulge of the child and barked, 'I am no lady!'  The maid rocked back slightly. While Brienne was unarmed, the maid had watched her spar with Ser Jaime one afternoon.  Brienne had delivered a backhanded slap to Jaime's face that sent him reeling. The maid did not want to meet a similar fate.  Brienne wrapped her arms around herself, swaying back and forth. 'Just leave me alone,' she moaned.

 

'Yes, m'lady.'  The maid got to her feet.

 

'I am no fucking lady!' Brienne yelled.  'I am a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms!'

 

'That may be so,' Sansa said lightly, gliding into the room, wearing a serviceable grey dress, more suited to the rigors of the kitchens or scullery than the lady of Winterfell.  She gestured for the maids to leave and closed the door. 'But you're a knight about to give birth.' Sansa rolled the sleeves back to her elbows and dipped a cloth into a basin of water and wrung it out.  She ran it gently over Brienne's face and the back of her neck. 'If you want everyone except the midwife to leave, we can do that.'

 

Brienne's eyes squeezed shut and her jaw clenched against another contraction.  She nodded. Her hand shot out and grasped Sansa's. 'Stay… please…'

 

Sansa slid an arm across Brienne's shoulders.  'Of course.'

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Hours blended together in a swirl of pain and the voices of the Eira and Sansa.  Brienne was no stranger to pain, but this was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.  It was unrelenting. Her labors saw one sundown, another sunrise, and yet another day's end.  In the hour of the sword, just before dawn, Brienne crawled across the floor, propping her elbows on the foot of the bed, fingers twining into the furs.  'I need to…' she panted.

 

Eira knew better than to try and persuade a laboring woman at this stage to get into the bed, so she lay on the floor, and slipped a hand between Brienne's thighs.  'The next pain, give 'er a good push,' she said. 'The babe'll be 'ere presently.'

 

Brienne pressed her forehead to the bed and let the furs muffle the sob that she couldn't hold back.  She was so tired and she wanted it all to stop, and said as much, weeping openly. 'You can do this,' Sansa told her, voice hoarse with weariness.  Brienne's hands fisted into the furs and she took in a deep breath then pushed as hard as she could, head thrown back, wailing.

 

'An' that's the head born, m'lady,' the Eira crowed.  

 

'How many fucking times do I have to say I am not a fucking lady?' Brienne gasped.

 

'Just a few more now,' Eira continued unperturbed.  She'd heard everything. 'Small push, all right?' Brienne made a noise signalling assent.  'Damn you to the Seven Hells, Jaime Lannister,' she breathed as she pushed one last time.

 

'You have a son, m'lady,' Eira told her, working quickly to cut the cord and bundle the baby in length of linen.  

 

Brienne gingerly shifted until she could brace her back against the footboard of the bed, and Eira laid the squirming bundle of Jaime Lannister's son in her arms.  'Oh…' She drew a trembling fingertip over the round cheek. She looked up at Eira. 'My apologies. I said some things I ought not to have said.'

 

Eira squatted in front of Brienne and wiped her face with a wet cloth.  'You didn't mean it,' she said kindly.

 

Brienne glanced down at the baby.  'Not all of it.'

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne watched the baby's hand open and close against the slope of her breast while he nursed.  Sansa and Eira had offered to find a wet nurse, but Brienne flatly refused, driven by an urge she didn't quite understand, but was unwilling to question it.  The castle was dark and still. The wolf hour. The darkest hour before daybreak. 'What should I name him?' she murmured into the darkness and waited, listening for an answer from _him_.  If the Mother was as merciful as the septons said, perhaps she would allow Jaime to whisper their son's name into her dreams.  Perhaps it would be the Warrior. Brienne wouldn't have been surprised to find the Warrior and the Mother wore the same face. Giving birth had felt like a battle, and she was only beginning to plumb the depths of how hard she would fight to protect him from harm.

 

The baby released her nipple and his head lolled against her arm as he fought sleep.  Brienne tugged the edges of the bedgown together and studied the baby's sleeping face.  He already had her too-wide mouth, and she hoped it looked better on the lad than it did on her.  The shape of his eyes and nose were Jaime's. She wondered if he would one day have her bright blue eyes or his father's green.  Brienne honestly hoped the boy didn't completely resemble her. It would be a poor fate for the lad. By the same token, she also hoped he didn't too-strongly resemble his father.

 

He was less than a day old and she already feared for his safety.  She could stay here, in the North. Sansa had already promised her safety and sanctuary, but there was always a possibility someone would say the wrong thing in the wrong place.  There weren't many folk in Winterfell who didn't know she'd taken Jaime Lannister to her bed. Brienne pressed her lips to the baby's downy forehead. There was only one thing she knew to do.   'I won't kneel,' she murmured, 'because I don't think I could manage to get back into this bed unaided just now.' She cupped her son's head in one large hand. 'I offer my services. I will shield your back…'  Her voice broke, and she bit her lip and inhaled through her nose.   'And keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.'

 

She slid down, tucking the baby against her side.  She let the tears come, then. They slipped silently from the corners of her eyes and she gave in the the grief she'd buried the day Tyrion Lannister informed her Jaime was dead.  She wept silently, wondering when the day would come when she would finally let memory of Jaime Lannister go.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Tyrion knocked on the door and opened it just enough to poke his head through.  'May I?' he asked.

 

Brienne absently nodded, not taking her eyes off the baby propped on her drawn-up knees.  

 

Tyrion climbed to sit on the bed next to Brienne and peered at the baby.  'Oh, well done.'

 

'Would you like to hold him?' Brienne asked.  In response, Tyrion held out his arms and Brienne carefully deposited the swaddled baby to him.  Tyrion's face crumpled briefly. 'Oh. Oh my…' He nuzzled the indeterminate blonde fuzz that graced the baby's head.  'Have you a name for him?'

 

Brienne's fingers curled around the edge of the furs.  'Not yet.' She hesitated, but if anyone would understand, it would be Tyrion.  'I was afraid before he was born. That I couldn't love him because I was -- _am_ \-- so furious with his father.  That I would be unable to love him because he was conceived because his father fucked me in a moment of weakness.'  She pushed herself up higher on the pillows, wincing a little.

 

Tyrion smiled a little as the baby yawned.  'You believe that's all it was?'

 

Brienne's head turned to face the window.  'He was loyal only to Cer— _her_ .’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the name of the venomous bitch.  ‘He left Winterfell and went back to _her_.'  To her horror, tears pricked her eyelids.

 

Tyrion merely plucked a handkerchief from his sleeve and pushed it into Brienne's hand, tactfully keeping his gaze on his nephew.  'What will you tell him about his father?' he inquired.

 

Brienne stiffened.  'I don't know.'

 

Tyrion traced the baby's sketchy brows.  'Tywin Lannister twisted his children emotionally,' he said neutrally.  'However, nobody else in the world ever loved me the way Jaime did. He was a good man.'

 

'I know…' Brienne admitted in resignation.

 

'Tell me one good thing Jaime ever did for you, and giving you armor and a sword and knighting you don't count.'

 

Brienne let a wry grin twist her mouth for a moment.  'You won't make me drink if you think I'm lying?'

 

Tyrion leaned back.  'No. Because you wouldn't lie about this.'

 

Brienne twisted the handkerchief in her hands.  'Did he ever tell you about Harrenhal?' Tyrion shook his head.  'Roose Bolton kept me prisoner, but released Jaime. Bolton's men dropped me into a bear pit, with a wooden practice sword, wearing a _dress_.'  Her lip curled and her voice dripped with contempt.  Tyrion had to smother a smile. He couldn't picture the lady knight in a dress, even if he tried to imagine her as a child.  'He came back for me. Jumped into pit, armed with nothing more than his wits and one hand. Managed to get me out, then I pulled him out…'  She glanced down at her hands, not seeing them, but Jaime's face in the bath at Harrenhal, pale and glazed with feverish sweat. 'He let people call him Kingslayer, no matter how much it pained him.’

 

'Nobody would have believed otherwise.’ Tyrion's eyes narrowed.  ‘You know the real story then.’

 

'Yes.’ She let her hands rest in her lap.  'The Mad King ordered him to kill your father.  And he was going to burn King's Landing with wildfire.'  Brienne shrugged. 'Which oath was he to keep? To protect the king or the innocents?  He chose the innocents. Even though it wasn’t an entirely unselfish act. Your father may have been a ruthless bastard, but even he didn't deserve to die in that manner.'  Her vision blurred and she blinked rapidly. _My name’s Jaime_ , he mumbled, just as he lost consciousness.  'And I can never tell his son that.' She took the baby back from Tyrion and inched her way off the bed, tucking the baby into the cradle.  

 

'He was happy with you,' Tyrion said suddenly.

 

Brienne straightened up, face red.  'Stop lying.'

 

Tyrion's eyebrow quirked upward.  'I would never lie to you about that.'


	5. A Time to Seek

**Jaime**

 

Jaime dreamed more now than he ever had before.

 

He dreamt of his childhood at Casterly Rock.  Of scrambling over the rocks, dropping into the sea below.  Galloping his pony across the meadows, pretending to lead a charge against the enemy.  Learning to fight with a weighted wooden sword, then the blunted sparring swords. Of lifting Tyrion into the saddle, then swinging up behind him, so his beloved younger brother could feel the wind whipping through his hair.  

 

He relived those glorious days with Brienne in Winterfell.  Teasing her about breaking Tormund's heart. Chasing her release before he found his own.  The sense of elation when her sense of reserve dissipated and she cried out his name, writhing under his body.  Sparring with her. Trading pointed barbs with each hit. The sensation of her callused hands gliding over his back, gripping his hips, urging him into her.  Eyes the deep, limpid blue of the summer skies, soft with sleep, peeping over the edge of the furs. The smile on her face after he'd knighted her. All the more beautiful for the unbridled joy in it.

 

Those were the dreams he craved, in which he sought oblivion.

 

Other dreams seemed to seek him out when he least expected it.

 

Some were real: Myrcella convulsing while the poison slowly killed her, blood trickling from her nose.  Tommen throwing himself from an open window of the Red Keep, his body lying in a broken sprawl on the stones below.  

 

Everything he'd ever done for Cersei.  Nearly murdering Bran Stark. Killing Alton.  He would wake from that nightmare, feeling the crack of his skull against Alton's.  Threatening to kill Edmure Tully's infant son. That one left him sleepless. Even more than the ghosting sensation of Bran's bony chest under his hand.  At what point in his life had murdering innocent children become something he did without a second thought? He'd claimed he'd do it all over again, but would he?  Had it been something he'd said in a sense of bravado, knowing everyone in the room except for Tyrion and Brienne would have cheerfully hacked him to pieces? The North remembered.  

 

Those dreams sent him into a spiral of self-recrimination that left him wondering if he happened to slip and fall off a boulder into the turbulent waters of Shipbreaker Bay, would it be enough?  Would his life be enough recompense for the lives he'd taken in an effort to please someone who merely used him for her own purposes and called it love?

 

The other dreams played on his worst fears.

 

Watching in horror as the bear slapped at the wooden sword in Brienne's hand, breaking it.  Then raising his huge paw, delivering a massive blow to Brienne's head. She fell to the churned up mud and didn't move, blood leaking from her nose and ears, staining that ridiculous pink dress.  

 

Managing to rescue her, but watching helplessly as she succumbed to the injuries the bear inflicted.

 

Standing on the parapets of Riverrun, while she and Podrick rowed from the castle, unable to stop the Lannister archer from letting an arrow fly, tracking its path with a growing sense of dread, feeling the shock in his own throat when it pierced Brienne's, as Podrick frantically tried to keep her body from falling into the water.  

 

Brienne collapsing in the onslaught of the undead.  Eyes staring blankly at the dark sky.

 

He always woke from these dreams, gasping and sweating.  Some nights had to throw himself across the room, heaving the contents of his stomach into the chamberpot.

 

This night, the battered face of Brienne haunted his nightmares.  He hadn't been able to prevent Locke's men from raping her. Repeatedly.  Sleep proved elusive, as each time he closed his eyes, his dreams sent him to places he knew didn't exist, yet couldn't keep his mind from.    

 

Jaime slid from the bed and limped to the trunk that held his clothes. By the time he managed to don breeches, shirt, doublet and jerkin, the window had lightened considerably.  He retrieved his cloak and the stick he used to walk any distance longer than the length of the chamber he occupied.

 

He made his halting way down the spiraling stairs to the great hall of Storm's End.  The castle barely stirred at this time of day, and Jaime didn't meet another soul until he went into the courtyard.  Clanging sounds came from the smithy. Curious, Jaime followed the sounds, surprised to find Gendry, soot-stained and sweating, hammering at a bent sparring sword.  Gendry looked up at the _thump_ of Jaime's stick on the packed earthen floor of the smithy.  'You're up early,' Gendry commented.

 

'Can't sleep,' Jaime replied, sliding onto a crate.  'You're not exactly playing the role of the lord of the manor yourself.'

 

Gendry snorted.  'Never had the chance t' lie in bed like a lord.  Not in Flea Bottom. Spent most o' me life in a smithy, and can't let i' go.  Lord or no.' He plunged the sword into a barrel of water. It hissed and spat as the heated metal cooled.  He swiped a shirt sleeve over his forehead. 'Davos said even th' king spent days digging the dead out o' the rubble in King's Landing.'

 

Jaime's brows rose at that.  'Was he recognized?'

 

'Course not,' Gendry scoffed.  'He likes it that way.' He rose on his toes to grasp a small bundle on a shelf.  'Meant to finish this before th' coronation, but it weren't right.' He held it out to Jaime.  

 

Jaime set the canvas-wrapped bundle on the crate and folded it back to reveal a hook on a leather cuff with a sleeve for his stump made from dark, heavy silk.  It was as plain as the gold hand had been ornate. He slipped the sleeve over his stump and picked up the hook. Instead of the complicated strapping of the hand, Gendry had used a row of small buckles that Jaime could easily fasten with his one hand.  'It's perfect.'

 

'Thank me later when y've learnt how to use it.'  Gendry snagged his cloak from a hook on the back wall of the smithy.  'Raven came from Winterfell,' he threw over his shoulder. 'There's a bit in it for you from Tyrion.'

 

'What did Tyrion have to say for himself?'

 

Gendry shrugged.  'Dunno. Sealed scroll inside a sealed scroll.'

 

'Then how do you know it was from Tyrion?'

 

Gendry grinned.  'You'll see when you see the seal.'

 

After breakfast, back in his chamber, Jaime held up the small scroll from Tyrion and began to laugh.  The usual seal from Winterfell was an oval, the size of Jaime's thumbnail, with the Stark snarling direwolf head filling the space, pressed into black wax.  Tyrion's seal was the same size, but the direwolf was quite small in relation to the oval. Jaime could hear Tyrion tell the craftsman, _Make it little, like me…_

 

Jaime cracked the seal by pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, then used the new hook to hold one end of the scroll down, and spread it open.  Always mindful of how Jaime struggled with reading, Tyrion wrote clearly, the words spaced well apart. The message consisted of only three words. Jaime closed his eyes, then opened them again.  The words were still the same.

 

_Pentos.  Winterfell._

 

Jaime's stomach clenched as he read the final word.

 

 _Tarth_.

 

*************************************************************************************************************

 

The big, dark grey horse nickered softly at Jaime when he entered the stable.  Jaime set the stick aside and retrieved a brush, slipping it over the hook. He grabbed an apple from the barrel by the door and offered it to the animal, who delicately plucked it from his outstretched palm. ‘I suppose we ought to get to know one another,’ he told the horse. ‘Then I can figure out what to call you.’  The horse wasn’t the spirited, blooded animal he was accustomed to riding, but it had a steady gait and even temper, and had been trained well. Jaime transferred the brush to his hand and ran it down the horse's back. 'I was never very good at naming horses. I always choose boring names.' The horse whickered, gazing sadly at the apple barrel.  Jaime nudged the horse. 'You've just had one.' He moved the brush down the horse's side. 'Now, when I try to think of a name for you, all that comes to mind is Stormy or Winter.' The horse stamped a hoof. 'Exactly,' Jamie told him. 'Boring.'

 

Jaime's movements made the parchment tucked into the cuff of the hook crinkle.  The sounds of the stable faded and Jaime could only hear the last conversation he'd had with Tyrion.

 

_'I have a house in Pentos,' Tyrion said.  'I bought it for Shae, shortly after I married Sansa.  After I escaped King's Landing, I never had the opportunity to sell it.  It's yours. You can go live in Pentos. Be free. Not worry that someone will recognize you.'_

 

_'And do what with myself?' Jaime asked skeptically.  'I can hardly sell my sword. And I don't know how to do anything else.'_

 

_'Then come to Winterfell when you're able.  I'm sure Sansa could find a place for you there.'_

 

_'Sansa Stark is not going to welcome me to Winterfell a second time.'_

 

_'She might.  We won't know until we ask,' Tyrion responded._

 

_'And again, what would I even do there?  Become one of the old warhorses who sit round the fire and tell the same tales of their exploits over and over?'  Jaime drew his knees to his chest. 'Brienne still serves Sansa, does she not?' Tyrion nodded. 'Then I think we both know why I cannot join you in Winterfell.'_

 

_'Well, then, what's your foolproof idea?' Tyrion demanded._

 

_'You know I don't have one.'_

 

_'Well, you can't live in the hedgerows,' Tyrion said in exasperation._

 

_Jaime's eyes closed and he pinched the bridge of his nose.  'Can I think about it? It will be months before I'm well enough to travel.'_

 

_'Yes.'  Tyrion's voice cracked.  'I may never see you again,' he said, so quietly that Jaime had to strain to hear him.  He stared at Jaime, trying to memorize each line and plane of his face._

 

_Jaime pulled Tyrion into an embrace, holding him so tightly, that he was sure Tyrion was unable to breathe.  'You really are the best of us.' Jaime pulled back, hand gripping Tyrion's shoulder. 'Please be happy,' he pleaded.  'Even if it means forgetting me. You deserve to be happy and loved. You deserve it.' Tyrion's chin quivered and Jaime felt his own face crumple.  Jaime sniffed and rubbed his sleeve under his nose, swallowing hard. 'Look at the pair of us. Weeping like a couple of old women.'_

 

_Tyrion chuckled softly and ran his hands over his face.  'I could never forget you, you know.'_

 

_'Name your first boy Jaime.  If that doesn't make old Ned Stark haunt you, then nothing will.'_

 

Jaime had thought about it nearly every day since then.  Pentos was the logical solution. He could fade into anonymity.  Fade into nothingness. Drink himself into an early grave and lie in the earth, unknown and unmourned.  Just when he'd convinced himself to make arrangements to travel to Pentos, thoughts of Winterfell intruded.  The North was cold and its people unyielding. But he would have Tyrion, the only person left in the world who truly loved him, despite all his flaws.  And they were legion. Winterfell held too many memories, though.

 

Winterfell also had Brienne.

 

He refused to consider Winterfell while Brienne was still sworn to Sansa's service. 

 

Tyrion's message had changed the balance of the equation.

 

Why mention Tarth at all?  Jaime had no reason to go to Tarth, unless Tyrion was trying to tell him that Brienne had left Winterfell and returned to the island of her birth.  

 

There was another option that Tyrion hadn't mentioned.  Jaime could go North, then continue to the Wall and join the Night's Watch, or what was left of it.  The world still needed a place for bastards and broken men, and Jaime Lannister was both.  

 

*************************************************************************************************************

 

Jaime left the inn with a sense of relief.  It had been small, mean, and the straw-stuffed mattress smelled like a corpse left to rot in the summer sun.  He didn't care how cold it was, he was going to find the closest stream and scrub his clothes, then himself. He swung onto Winter and urged him forward to the Kingsroad.   He rode in pensive silence until he found a stream that hadn't frozen over and hobbled the horse. He built a fire, pulled off his boots, clothes, and hook, and then plunged, gasping, into the frigid water.  He quickly soaped his hair and body, rinsed, then did it all again for good measure. He clambered out of the stream, teeth chattering,  and dug a towel from his saddlebag, drying enough of the water so he could don clean clothing without them sticking unpleasantly to his skin.  He squatted on the bank and rubbed a bit of soap into the clothes he'd removed. Once he'd rinsed them, Jaime draped his shirt and smalls over a branch to dry and huddled by the fire.

 

He couldn't shake the feeling he was heading in the wrong direction.  North was wrong.  The Wall was definitely wrong.  

 

His head turned to face the east.  

 

_You have a second chance._

 

He could go to Gulltown.  Find a ship sailing south.

 

 _Don't fuck it up_.

 

Tarth.

 

Jaime doused the fire, and stuffed his wet clothes into an empty saddlebag and removed Winter's hobble.  He mounted the horse and urged him into a gallop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words and feedback. :)
> 
> I didn't start watching Game of Thrones until early April, and fell in love with the dynamic between Brienne and Jaime. Then I binged seasons 5-8 in a week. 
> 
> I like to think that the only two people in the world who ever saw the real Jaime Lannister were Tyrion and Brienne. And like a lot of us, I was hugely disappointed in how the showrunners handled the end of his story.


	6. A Time to Plant

**Brienne**

 

Tyrion found Brienne sitting sideways in one of the deep windows of the castle, a faint smile curving her mouth.  It was just after the midday meal, and she cradled the baby against her shoulder, humming softly. Tyrion paused to admire the scene.  It was rare to see a smile on Brienne's face, but he strongly suspected this might have been similar to the ones she surely had shared with Jaime.  He gingerly approached as if she held a vial of wildfire instead of a sleeping baby. 'I hope I'm not intruding,' he murmured.

 

'Not at all.'  Brienne lowered her feet to the floor, making room for Tyrion.  

 

Tyrion held out a square of parchment, on which he'd sketched a saddle for Brienne.  'Take this to the saddler. Ask him to make it for you.'

 

'It doesn't look like a saddle I've ever seen,' she said doubtfully.

 

'A child of Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth will learn to ride before they can walk,' Tyrion stated.  'You should be able to strap the boy in front of you there while he's still small,' he added, pointing to the front.  'Then as he grows, he can sit astride in front of you until he's old enough for his own pony.'

 

Brienne was touched by Tyrion's gesture.  She was certain it was more for Jaime's memory and the baby than for her.  'This is very kind of you, but I don't think the saddler will just do this for me.'

 

'Nonsense,' Tyrion said.  'Why wouldn't he?'

 

Brienne hesitated, one of her hands protectively cupping the baby's head. 'Because I was the Kingslayer's whore who bore his bastard?'  She bent and laid the baby in a basket at her feet, tucking a blanket securely around him. 'You know as well as I that there is no love lost between the Starks and the Lannisters,' she added.

 

Tyrion shifted until he could lean back against the wall.  'Tell me,' he began. 'Have you heard anyone in Winterfell call you a slut or a whore?  Or your son a bastard?' he asked idly.

 

'Do you honestly think anyone here would call me that where I could hear them?' Brienne retorted.  

 

'I haven't,' Tyrion stated firmly.  'And anyone that would say that tends to overlook my presence in a room.'  His head tilted to the side. Brienne was by turns stoic and prickly, a likely byproduct of the amount of torment she'd received as a young girl for her height, strength, and embrace of more masculine pursuits.  He'd noticed an air of unease about her since her child's birth. 'Something else is bothering you,' he stated.

 

Brienne's shoulders rose a little closer to her ears.  'You don't want to hear my problems,' she huffed.

 

Tyrion drew the folds of his cloak around himself.  'Try me.'

 

Brienne glanced down at the baby.  'I should go home. To Evenfall. I haven't been since Father sent me to join Renly.'  She ran a hand through her hair. 'And it's my birthright.'

 

'You would only need to ask, and Sansa would release you from your service,' Tyrion point out logically.

 

'If I asked,' Brienne allowed.  'Or I could continue to stay here.'

 

Tyrion studied Brienne's face.  'Is staying at Winterfell what you truly desire?

 

Brienne turned in the window seat, pulling her knees to her chest.  She gazed at the lowering sky for a moment. 'If I stay here, people will always view me with suspicion because of Jaime.  If I go home, I can hope rumors about how the Maid of Tarth ruined herself with the Kingslayer haven't reached Tarth. And then I would have to explain the baby.'   She sighed and rested her forehead on her knees and took in a shuddering breath. 'Which is yet another reason to stay in the North.' A troubled frown deepened the crease between her brows.  'And even if I stayed here, my son is still a bastard, and his mother a whore.'

 

'The North remembers, Ser Brienne,' Tyrion retorted.  'It isn't some pithy saying they throw around here. They live it.  The North remembers what you've done for the Starks.'

 

'And if they remember that, then they'll remember everything else I've done,' Brienne said sharply, stooping to pick up the basket.  

 

'Then wear it like armor.  And they will never be able to use it to hurt you,' Tyrion said intently.

 

Brienne stooped to pick up the basket, and Tyrion sat in silence as she walked away, shoulders squared and tense.  A sudden commotion in the courtyard caught his attention. Several riders clattered through Winterell's gate, and Tyrion spied Jon Snow dismounting from his horse.  'Perhaps there is something I can do,' he murmured.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne wandered through Winterfell’s godswood.  It was empty. Quiet.

 

She sat on one end of the bench under the weirwood, closed her eyes, and took a moment to just breathe. She wasn’t nearly as devout as she thought she ought to be. The Seven certainly hadn’t seen fit to answer her prayers at any point in her life before, but the godswood was an oasis of peace in the bustle of daily life at Winterfell.  And it was a few minutes where she didn't have to be a knight, didn't have to be a mother, didn't have to be anything.

 

The sound of boots crunching over fallen leaves made her sit up, hand flying to the hilt of her sword.  ‘I yield. I’ve seen you fight. I’d probably lose.’ Brienne slid off the bench to kneel. ‘Your Grace,’ she murmured.

 

‘Oh. No Your Grace,’ Jon Snow sighed. ‘I’ve been called Your Grace so much, I almost forgot me own name.’  He gestured to the bench. ‘Please. Don't let me interrupt your prayers.’

 

'Not really praying as much as avoiding my responsibilities for a few minutes,' she said wryly. Brienne slid back onto the bench, tucking her hands inside her cloak.  'Never really had much use for praying.'

 

Jon sat next to her, scuffing the toe of his boot in the dirt.  'Actions over words.'

 

'Something like that.'  Brienne's gaze swept the godswood, and she frowned. ‘No Kingsguard?’

 

‘They’re in the castle.'

 

‘That’s taking an unnecessary risk,’ Brienne said disapprovingly.

 

'Doesn’t seem right to bring ‘em in here.’  Jon’s Northern accent grew broader the more he spoke.  He sat on the bench next to Brienne. 'Wouldn’t let ‘em wear that bloody golden armor on the ship, either.’  Jon chuckled. ‘You can take the boy out o’ the North, but you can’t take the North out o’ the boy.’ He eyed Brienne. ‘Spar with me tomorrow?’   Brienne hesitated. ‘It’s a request. Not a royal summons. I’m not that royal.’ Jon nudged her with an elbow. ‘And don’t hold back in the bout.’ He hooked a thumb toward the gate.  'I can't convince any of that lot to have a go wi' me.'

 

Brienne looked at Jon as if he were a particularly slow and stupid child.  'You're the king.'

 

Jon's eyes crinkled at the corners.  'Jon Snow, first of his name, King of the Andals, titles, titles, titles…  is replaceable. No more automatically passin' the bloody crown to your sons.'

 

Brienne nodded slowly, a smile forming on her lips.  It had been far too long since she'd had a proper sparring session with anyone.   ‘Very well.’

 

Jon reached into a pocket inside his cloak. ‘Here.’  He held out a folded piece of parchment, bound with ribbons in the white and pale green colors of the Stark banners, then sealed with the twin direwolves that made up his insignia. Brienne took it and broke the seal. She quickly scanned the document, feeling her cheeks grow pink. ‘I don’t understand…'  A puzzled frown spread over her face. My father knows nothing about…’

 

‘Your father had nothing to do with it.  And neither did Sansa.’ Jon turned to look at Brienne with a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘You returned Sansa to her family. You defended Winterfell. You defended the North. The kingdom.’  Jon cleared his throat. ‘You’re Lord Tarth’s heir. You’ll be Lady of Evenfall one day, even if you're about as much of a lady as Arya. Nothing wrong wi’ that.' Jon softened the words with a grin. 'And your son will be the Lord of Evenfall.’  He got to his feet. ‘The North remembers, Ser Brienne.’ Jon bowed and left the godswood.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne nodded at the Kingsguard standing at the entrance to the family wing.  She knocked on the door of Sansa's chamber, surprised when Jon opened it. 'My apologies, Your Grace.  I wanted to speak to Lady Sansa.' She shuffled uncomfortably. 'It can wait.'

 

Jon opened the door wider.  'Come in,' he said with a jerk of his head.  Sansa and Tyrion occupied heavily padded chairs set in front of the roaring fire.  Brienne sidled in, hands twisting behind her back. She hated intruding on what was obviously a family moment.  Jon retrieved a cup and poured wine into it, then pressed it into Brienne's hand. 'Take my chair.

 

'Your Grace…'

 

'There aren't any kings in here,' Jon sighed.  'In here, it's just Jon, Sansa, Tyrion, and Brienne.  No Your Grace. No my lady or my lord.'

 

Brienne gingerly perched on the edge of the chair, wincing when Jon dragged a small bench to the fire and sprawled across it.  In spite of her nominal status as _Lady_ Brienne, she'd never been at ease amongst other highborn lords and ladies.  She was always too big and yet at the same time, not nearly enough. The sort of manners that Sansa made look easy, looked awkward on Brienne.  It hadn't helped that her father was gruff, blunt, and brusque, without the slightest idea of how to raise a motherless girl. She'd spent so much of her youth as the butt of other people's jokes that she now found it difficult to trust people.  She blinked. Jon had asked her a question and she hadn't heard it. 'I beg your pardon?'

 

'I hear Tyrion designed a saddle for you to take the baby out wi' you,' Jon repeated.  'How's it work?'

 

'Very well, Your…'  Brienne cut herself off, biting her lip, a feeling a flush creep up the back of her neck and sweat prickle under her jerkin.  'He seems to enjoy the rides.'

 

'Then we'll have to start looking for a suitable pony,' Tyrion pronounced.  'For his first name day.'

 

'Perhaps just a toy pony for his first name day,' Brienne murmured. She lifted the cup and took a fortifying sip of wine.  'My lady… I would like to request… to be released from your service,' she said stiffly. 'It's time I went home.'

 

'Then I hereby release you,' Sansa said, her eyes glittering in the firelight.  'But you will always have a place at my hearth and meat and mead at my table.'

 

Brienne ducked her head.  'Thank you, my lady.'

 

'When would you like to leave?' Tyrion asked.

 

'As soon as possible.'

 

'It will take at least a fortnight,' Sansa said.  'You'll need a cart, a maid to help with the baby, supplies…'  She rose and crossed the sitting room to a small desk, dipped a quill into the inkpot and began to scribble down anything Brienne might need.  

 

'Sansa… my lady…  please no carts, no maids…'

 

Sansa turned, the quill held aloft.  'But the cradle… And surely you don't mean to travel wearing armor while you're--'  Sansa cut herself off abruptly, eyes flickering to Tyrion and Jon.

 

'I'll have to leave the cradle,' Brienne sighed.  'But an extra horse will be welcome,' she allowed.  'A cart is not necessary.'

 

Sansa glared at Brienne with narrowed eyes.  'Are taking Pod with you?'

 

'As far as Tarth.'  She glanced at Jon from the corner of her eye.  'I rather hoped he could join the Kingsguard.'

 

'If you trained him, I'll find a place for him,' Jon promised.  

 

Tyrion choked on a sip of wine.  'As long as he can still visit brothels,' he spluttered.

 

'Sailing from White Harbor?' Jon asked Brienne.

 

'Yes.'

 

'You could wait a bit longer.  Go back wi' me,' Jon suggested.  'We can stop at Tarth before King's Landing.'

 

Brienne grimaced.  'Thank you, but I'd rather be as inconspicuous as possible.'  She took another sip of wine.

 

A sly grin stole across Jon's face.  'Could always send a raven to Tormund.  He'd jump at the chance to escort you.'

 

Brienne visibly shuddered.  'Podrick and I will be fine,' she said quickly.  She traced the pattern of the wood grain of the arm of the chair.  'There's one more thing I'd like to do…'

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne adjusted the baby in the crook of her arm, and sat back, trying to absorb as much as possible of Winterfell's hall.  Despite everything, despite her fears and worries, it had been her home for over a year. Jon glanced around the room, then rose to his feet and held up a hand.  The room quieted. 'Podrick Payne!' Jon called. Podrick set his cup down and climbed off the bench. 'Come forward.'

 

Podrick walked down the center aisle and bowed to Jon.  'Your Grace?'

 

Jon nodded to Brienne, unable to keep the smile off his face.  She passed the baby to Tyrion and stood up. She drew Oathkeeper from the scabbard hanging off the back of her chair and rounded the end of the high table.  'Kneel, Podrick Payne,' she ordered. Podrick's mouth fell open and he dropped to one knee. Brienne lifted Oathkeeper and laid it on his right shoulder. 'In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.'  She lifted the sword and moved it to Podrick's left shoulder. 'In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.' She moved the sword back to Podrick's right shoulder. 'In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.'  The smile on Podrick's face was incandescent. Brienne found herself smiling back, 'Arise, _Ser_ Podrick Payne, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.'  Brienne lowered Oathkeeper and stepped back. Jon whooped and began to applaud.  Tyrion pounded a fist on the table. The rest of the hall joined in with cheers.

 

Podrick threw a look over his shoulder at Brienne.  'Thank you, m'lady.' Brienne nodded and returned to her chair, sheathing her sword, a faraway look on her face.  

 

Tyrion shifted the baby and leaned closer to Brienne.  'You're thinking of Jaime aren't you?'

 

Brienne's eyes drifted across the hall to the spot where Jaime had knighted her.  'Of course I am.'

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

'I don't think we're going to make the inn,' Podrick said, pulling his horse to a halt.  

 

Brienne stopped next to Podrick.  'I suppose we ought to find somewhere to camp for the night.'  She twisted in the saddle, scanning the woods. 'I don't like this,' she murmured.

 

'I'll take first watch,' Podrick said, dismounting.  'D'you want me to go try and hunt for something for supper, m'lady?'  He heaved the panniers off the packhorse and set them next to a fallen tree.

 

'Don't bother.'  Brienne slid off her horse, too tired to argue, and took a basket off the packhorse.  'We've got plenty of provisions.' She unstrapped the baby from her saddle, and settled him in the basket, next to the panniers.  'I'll take care of the horses, if you build a fire.'

 

Podrick removed a quiver of arrows and a bow from the packhorse, and snorted.  'You still don't trust me to hobble horses, do you?'

 

'Maybe I ought to let you have another chance someday.'  Brienne pulled the saddle off her horse, then moved to Podrick's.  'I thought you weren't hunting,' she commented, gesturing at the bow in his hands.  

 

Podrick glanced around the clearing.  'I'm not, but… Something doesn't feel right, m'lady.'  He frowned doubtfully at the road behind them. 'I'll be quick with the wood.'

 

Brienne hobbled the three horses, and removed a brush from her saddlebag.  She rested her forearms across the back of her mare, tense, eyes swiveling from side to side.  She started when a dagger whizzed by her head, burying itself in the tree trunk just beyond her head.  Brienne whirled around and a man strode out of the woods. She threw the brush at him, and drew Oathkeeper in a fluid motion.  The man easily ducked the brush, and continued to advance toward Brienne. He looked familiar. She'd seen him in the Red Keep years before when she'd brough Jaime back to King's Landing.  

 

'You don't want t' fight me,' Bronn said, with an attempt at a charming smile.  

 

Adrenaline surged through Brienne, and she spared a glance for the basket, half-hidden by the tree trunk.  'I will if I have to,' she spat.

 

'Always wondered what Jaime Lannister saw in you,' Bronn continued.  'Thought his taste ran to siblings,' he taunted.

 

Brienne's jaw clenched.   _Don't react.  It's what he wants_ .  The baby whimpered and her breasts began to tingle.   _Please don't cry…_ She tried to keep her eye on the man and search for Podrick at the same time.   _Where are you, Pod?_  Bronn took advantage of her momentary distraction and kicked at her ankles.  She stumbled and he tried to disarm her. 'What do you want?' she snarled.

 

'Now that is an excellent question,' Bronn said lightly, moving in a wide circle around Brienne.  'I want what's owed me.'

 

'By whom?'

 

'The Lannisters.'

 

Brienne scowled.  'I'm not a Lannister.'

 

'No.  But that bastard over there is.'  Bronn nodded toward the basket.

 

Brienne blanched.  'Don't be ridiculous,' she said, her tongue thick with fear.

 

Bronn stopped moving.  'I heard a rippin' good tale at the tavern in Holdfast.  That the big blonde woman with delusions o' bein' a knight in Winterfell was playin' the whore to none other than Jaime Lannister, until he vanished and turned up dead in King's Landing.'  He feinted and Brienne parried it, her pulse pounding in her ears. 'And then nine months after he disappeared, the big blonde woman had a Lannister bastard.'

 

'How is a four month old child going to give you something he does not have?'  She scrambled to the side, trying to put herself between the baby and Bronn's flashing sword.

 

'No, but his uncle Tyrion does.'  Bronn sword flashed in the dying light. Brienne blocked the blow.   'I'm goin' to take that l'il bastard and use him as leverage, like.'  He made another move to keep Brienne off-balance. He lifted a foot and kicked Brienne square in the middle.  She fell backward, gasping for breath. 'If Tyrion Lannister wants his nephew in one piece, he'll give me what he promised.'   Brienne struggled to her knees and lurched to her feet. 'It's time to collect his debt.'

 

'Over my dead body,' Brienne hissed.  

 

'Have it your way, then.'  Bronn shrugged and threw himself at Brienne, aiming a punch at the side of her head.  It connected solidly and Brienne's head slammed into a tree trunk. She slid to the ground, tasting blood in her mouth.  Her vision began to darken around the edges. Brienne used the tree to haul herself upright. Bronn bent over the panniers and was reaching for the basket when Brienne heard a whirring sound overhead.  

 

An arrow pierced Bronn's throat.  Blood flowed from his mouth and bubbled around the arrow shaft.  He began to tilt to the side, dead before he hit the ground.

 

Brienne frantically looked around.  Podrick stood just beyond the clearing, another arrow notched in his bow.  'Was he alone?' Podrick demanded.

 

'I think so.'  Brienne staggered across the clearing and snatched the baby from the basket.  He had begun to wail in earnest. She sat on the ground, legs splayed in front of her, clutching the baby to her chest.  She fumbled with the lacing of her jerkin, then tunic, while the baby shrieked. He clamped on a nipple and the sudden silence was deafening.

 

Podrick used the toe of his boot to turn Bronn's body over.  'Bronn,' he said dispassionately. 'He was a sellsword. Worked with Tyrion.  Got himself knighted after Blackwater Bay.'

 

'Pod…'

 

'He'd only do anything if you promised him gold.  Or lands. Titles. All right enough if he didn't think you'd slighted him.'

 

'We should go,' Brienne said.  'As soon as possible.' She held the baby a little closer.  'We should go to the inn.'

 

'It's getting dark, m'lady.'

 

Brienne tilted her head back.  Few clouds scudded overhead, and a full moon hung in the sky. 'Doesn't matter.  We can use moonlight.'

 

Pod picked up the panniers, grimacing at the blood splattered over them.  He grabbed a handful of dead wet leaves and swiped them over the panniers, trying to wipe off as much of the blood as possible.  He saddled the horses, and then sat next to Brienne. 'What should we do with him?' he asked, indicating Bronn's body.

 

Brienne stared at it for several moments.  'Leave it,' she said evenly, moving the baby to her other breast.  'The wolves can have it.'

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne led her mare off the boat and waited for Podrick to join her on the dock, checking the straps holding the baby in the saddle.  Two men loitering on the dock began to jab one another with their elbows. 'Oi! Innt that old Selwyn's girl?' the rotund one said to the other.  

 

'Ye mean th' one what liked to fight all the boys?'

 

'Yeh, her.'  

 

Podrick drew himself up to his full height.  'That's Ser Brienne of Tarth to you.'

 

The pair exploded into derisive laughter.  'Listen to him. _Ser_ , like she's a knight or summat,' the bald, lanky one sneered.

 

Podrick's hand tightened over the dagger at his waist.  'She is. I was there when she was knighted by Ser Jaime Lannister, before the battle at Winterfell against the army of the dead,' Podrick stated.

 

The round man snickered.  'Likely did it so she'd suck his cock later.'  

 

Podrick dropped the reins of his horse.  The dagger flashed in the sunshine and Podrick's other hand wrapped around the man's throat before Brienne could tell him to leave it be.  'Take it back,' Podrick growled, with a hard expression on his face Brienne had never seen before.

 

'Pod.'  Brienne's voice was quiet, but the command in it was unmistakable.  'Let's go.'

 

Podrick's fingers tightened briefly, then he shoved the offender away.  He grabbed the leading rein of the packhorse and swung onto his own mount.  

 

Brienne led the way out of the port village, heading north toward Evenfall Hall.  'You didn't need to do that,' she said, once the village was behind them.

 

'The vow says, "defend the innocent," doesn't it?'

 

'Yes, but I'm not a defenseless innocent,' Brienne replied dryly.

 

'I know you can defend yourself, m'lady,' Podrick shot back mildly.  'Doesn't mean you always have to.'

 

Brienne glanced at him.  'Thank you, Pod.'

 

The rode in silence, Brienne breathing in the scents of Tarth -- a heady combination of cypress trees, lavender, and salt water.  The baby slept peacefully, lulled by the rhythm of the horse, one hand next to his face. _Just like his father_ , Brienne mused.  Jaime's memory was more of a dull ache now than the breathtaking pain it had been.  The less said about the last time she saw him, the better, as far as she was concerned.  She wanted her last memory of Jaime to be the morning before Sansa had uttered those fateful words.  His hair was mussed, the clear morning light brightening his dark green eyes. The guileless smile that only ever appeared in the privacy of their chamber or the deserted bathhouse.  His body turning into hers, the light pressure of his stump against the back of her head, drawing her in closer for a kiss. She'd never recoiled from the stump. Not when he'd lost his hand and not when it slid over her skin now.

 

'M'lady?'  Podrick broke into her thoughts.  

 

'Hmmm?'

 

'I haven't thanked you for recommending me to the Kingsguard.

 

'You'll do yourself proud, Pod.'  Brienne's brow rose. 'I certainly am.'

 

Pod blushed rosily.  'Thank you, m'lady. He nudged his horse next to Brienne's.  'Do you wish it was you going to the Kingsguard? It was your dream, not mine.'

 

Brienne shook her head and exhaled noisily.  'No,' she admitted. 'I would have had to give him away,' she added, titling her head toward the baby.  'Lady Sansa offered to find a family, but I couldn't do it.' She glanced at Podrick. 'Dreams can change.'  She looked up and the outlines of Evenfall Hall appeared between her mare's ears. 'I'm not ready for this,' she murmured, but straightened her shoulders resolutely.

 

They rode through the gate, and Brienne slid off the horse, and unstrapped the baby.  'Lady Brienne?' said a voice from the stable. Brienne spun and Osric, the Master of Horse for Evenfall  trundled into the sunny courtyard. 'How long has it been?'

 

'A very long time,' Brienne murmured.  

 

Osric's eyes swiveled between Brienne's face the baby's.  'Your foal?'

 

Brienne stiffened.  'Yes.'

 

'Colt or filly?'

 

'Boy.'

 

Osric jerked his chin toward the baby.  'Got your mouth.' He peered at the baby and grunted.  'Mayhap he'll grow into it. Sire a big man?'

 

'Big enough.'  Brienne bit her lip, wondering how Jaime would react to being compared to a prize stallion put to stud.   _He'd probably preen like bloody rooster_.  More and more members of the household trickled into the courtyard as news spread that Lady Brienne had returned.

 

'Bet it's a bastard from some wildling savage,' a voice spat.  'Or the get of one of them Northerners,' added another.

 

Brienne's gaze swept across the crowd.  It parted and melted away from the two offenders.  'Pod. Take the baby.' Podrick scooped the baby from her arms, and Brienne drew Oathkeeper, the blade glinting in the sun.  Podrick rearranged the baby so he faced Brienne. 'You'll want to see this, lad,' he said. 'Your mother's one of the best.'

 

Brienne allowed herself a smirk, then swung Oathkeepr in a tightly controlled arc, the edge shaving down the side of one of the men's faces.  Half his beard drifted down into the mud. 'If you ever call my son a bastard again, you'll lose more than your beard,' she said quietly. 'He's my heir, and if you don't like that, you're free to leave.'  Her voice rose so the group assembled could hear. 'And that goes for anyone else.'

 

Nervous murmurs broke out behind her, so Brienne turned, readjusting her grip, Oathkeeper spinning around her hand.  A large man with a bushy ashy blonde beard stalked from the castle. 'You've gotten better,' he growled.

 

'I have.'  Brienne sheathed Oathkeeper, and took the baby back from Podrick.

 

'That lad the father?' the man barked, jabbing a finger at the baby.

 

'No.  Podrick was my squire.  He's joining the Kingsguard.  Traveled with me from Winterfell.'

 

'You staying?'

 

Brienne blinked, feeling unexpected tears prickle her eyelids.  'Yes.' The man grunted, then walked back into the castle. The tension broke and people began to drift away in twos and threes, leaving Brienne alone in the courtyard with Podrick.  'Who was that, m'lady?' Podrick whispered.

 

Brienne let out the breath she'd been holding.  'My father.'

 


	7. A Time to Build Up

Brienne stood stiffly in front of her father's massive desk, feeling as if she were eleven years old, with knees and elbows scraped raw, mud streaking her face, and hair an unruly tangle.  He sat in the large cushioned chair, inspecting the baby in his arms. 'So if the father isn't the wee lad that came with you, who is it?'

 

'He's dead,' Brienne said shortly.

 

'And you were unmarried,' Selwyn stated.  Brienne merely glared at him. 'So how am I supposed to leave Evenfall to my daughter's nameless whelp?'

 

Brienne threw the document from Jon Snow onto the desk.  'You'll leave Evenfall to me. I will leave it to my legitimate heir.'

 

Selwyn tickled the baby under the chin.  'You never did anything like everyone else, did you girl?'

 

'And why should I start now?' Brienne said bitingly.  

 

'Sit down.  You're making my neck hurt having to look up.'  Brienne dropped into one of the chairs in front of the desk.  'You'll start learning how to care for Evenfall and Tarth. You can also take charge of the sworn swords.'

 

'Very well.'

 

'They need a good arse kicking.'  Selwyn returned the baby to his basket and stood up.  'Come on. Time for supper. Get the gawking over with.'

 

Brienne picked at a ragged cuticle.  'I apologize if I've disappointed you.'

 

'If you were ten years younger, I might be disappointed,' Selwyn told her.  'But you were never going to make a good marriage, my girl. No matter how hard I tried.  Tarths have been caretakers of this island for centuries.' He grasped the edge of the basket.  'And the young squire here ensures we will continue for another generation.' He rounded the end of the desk and clapped Brienne firmly on the back.  'Don't worry. The old hens'll find something else to gossip about in a week or two.'

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Jaime led Winter off the boat.  'How do I get to Evenfall?' he asked the captain.

 

'Eh…  Straightest way is thataway,' the grizzled man told him, pointing north.  'Gets you there sooner. Prettiest view… take the same road, but there'll be a fork after three miles or so that goes round by the shore.  Nice little hidden cove. Gates are just beyond it. Don't close 'em until after sundown. Both'll get you there before then, if you don't dawdle.'

 

'Thank you.'  Jaime nodded and mounted Winter.  When the fork appeared, he sat for several minutes.   _Main road or take the path…?_  He nudged his horse forward, then stopped.  The sooner he got to Evenfall, the sooner he'd have to face Brienne.  And he still had no idea what to say, even after the weeks of traveling.  Jaime patted Winter’s neck. 'Maybe we can take the long way around…' He turned the horse to the left and plodded along the sandy track.  'As long as we're there before sundown.'

 

Far too soon for Jaime's comfort, the bulk of Evenfall appeared through the trees.  A tall figure emerged from the gates, carrying a sword in one hand, heading for the sand at the edge of the cove.  Jamie stopped the Winter, and slid off, staying hidden in the shadows. He couldn’t see the person's face, but he knew who it was all the same. That purposeful stride belonged to only one person. 'Brienne,' he murmured.  She paced around the cove a few times, twirling the sword around, the hilt flipping over her hand until she paused long enough to position her feet into a stance. Jaime leaned against a tree and watched as she fought an imaginary opponent.  The sun had nearly set when she stopped, wiping sweat from her face with the hem of her tunic. Brienne slid the sword back into the scabbard and dropped to the sand, leaning back on her hands, tilting her face up to the breeze that still held a hint of the day’s warmth coming off the water.  Jaime took a cautious step toward her, then another.

 

Brienne kept her eyes on the shoreline.  She could hear the footsteps approaching behind her.  There was a slight hesitation every other step that signalled the person probably walked with a limp.  One hand curled into the sand, picking up a handful, ready to throw it in the other person's eyes, while the other grasped Oathkeeper's hilt.  She turned to find the intruder standing completely still. 'My lady knight,' he murmured, bowing at the waist.

 

That voice. It had haunted her dreams for over a year.  Her lips soundlessly formed his name and she scrambled to her feet, covering the distance between them in a few strides.  One hand reached out and cupped his face, blunt fingers sliding over his close-cropped beard. 'You're alive,' she said. 'But you're dead.  Tyrion told me you were dead.' _I'm dreaming_ , she told herself.   _This is a dream… It's not real_ …  

 

Jaime's head tilted in acknowledgement.  'Officially, Jaime Lannister died. A victim of the Dragon Queen.'  He reached up and traced the planes of her face with his fingertips.  Brienne stood in stunned silence, then stepped back. Her right hand flew through the air, and the back of it struck his cheek.  Jaime staggered, then landed hard on his bottom. 'I deserved that…' he said wryly, rubbing his jaw.

 

Brienne stood over him.  'I thought you were dead,' she repeated.

 

A young woman ran from the gates.  'M'lady, he won't settle down and Mira said to come fetch you quick.'

 

Brienne heaved a sigh.  'I'm on my way. I just need a few minutes.'  The maid scampered back to the castle. Brienne offered a hand to Jaime, who took it, and she hauled him to his feet.  'Do you have a horse with you?' Jaime gestured to the trees. 'Well, go get him,' she huffed impatiently. 'I don't have all night.'

 

Jaime trudged back to Winter, and looped the reins around his hook.  'That went better than I expected,' he confessed, running his hand down the horse’s nose.  'I thought she'd have her sword at my throat. And rightly so.' He led Winter to the cove, then followed Brienne through the gates.  She stopped outside a stable and waited while he removed his sword and saddlebags and passed the horse to a waiting stable lad with firm instructions for his care.  'Come with me,' she said shortly. Jaime followed her through a door and up a set of spiraling stairs, his left hip twinging in protest. She opened her chamber door, and a harried looking older woman held a thrashing bundle out to her.  'Mira, could you prepare the chamber next to mine for our guest?' Brienne asked evenly, laying Oathkeeper on the mantle of the fireplace. The look she shot Jaime clearly said it was so she could keep an eye on him.

 

Jaime stood uneasily just inside the door.  His bewilderment grew as Brienne unlaced her tunic while she spoke.  She bared a breast, and took the baby from the hapless Mira. The baby latched on with soft yelp, and the sudden quiet filled the room.  Brienne glanced at Jaime over her shoulder and moved to perch on the side of her bed, facing away from him. Jaime slowly set his saddlebags on the floor and propped his sword against the wall, then carefully approached Brienne and sank to the edge of the bed next to her.  'You had a baby,' he breathed.

 

'Obviously,' Brienne said stiffly.

 

'He…  the maid said "he…"  He's mine?'

 

Brienne's shoulder hunched.  'He's mine.' She relented and added grudgingly, 'You're his father.'

 

'When?'  Jaime stared in rapt fascination at the baby.  

 

'Six months ago.  At Winterfell.'

 

Jaime shook his his head.  'I didn't know. Tyrion didn't tell me…'

 

'Tyrion lied to both of us,' Brienne said bitterly.  If he'd lied about Jaime being alive, what else had he lied about?  

 

'What do you call him?'  Jaime's hand rose, then faltered.  He lowered it quickly and wrapped his fingers tightly around the hook.

 

'I… I haven't decided.'  Brienne turned away from Jaime and shifted the baby to her other breast.  

 

‘Is he a Snow? Or Storm, perhaps?’ Jaime swallowed hard. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can’t give him my name anyway.  I’m officially a bastard myself these days.’

 

‘He’s a legitimate Heir of Tarth,’ Brienne said flatly. ‘I’ll fight anyone who dares challenge me over it.’

 

‘I imagine you would.’

 

'What do you want?'

 

'I want to stay.'

 

'I asked you stay with me before King's Landing.  You refused.'

 

Jaime eyed the baby.  'Perhaps I should have.'

 

Brienne snorted.  'You can stay the night.'  She threw him another impassive look over her shoulder.  'For the time being,' she relented. 'We'll decide what to do after that in the morning.'  The baby’s limbs had gone slack with repletion. She turned and unceremoniously plopped the child into Jaime’s arms. ‘Hold him against your shoulder and pat his back until he belches. It’s loud enough to make Tormund envious,’ she told him. Brienne quickly retied her laces. ‘Are you hungry?’ Jaime nodded. ‘I’ll bring some food from the the kitchens. I can’t promise a grand feast, but it will see you through to breakfast.’

 

Jaime's mouth twitched.  'The last time I had a grand feast was after the Winterfell battle.'  His stomach rumbled. 'Anything will be welcome. Even the rations we feed troops.'  Brienne clattered out of the room and Jaime eased the baby to his shoulder in the manner in which he remembered their old nurse did with Tyrion.  He gingerly patted the baby's back until he heard a soft belch. Jaime grew aware of a sudden sense of warmth over his right forearm, and warily prodded the nappy with a forefinger, only slightly relieved to find it was merely piss.  He shifted the baby away a little so he could see the boy's face. The baby gurgled at him, flashing a wide, gummy smile. 'You waited until your mother left to do that,' he said accusingly. The baby blew bubbles at him in reply. Jaime glanced around the room, but even if he knew where the clean nappies were, he hadn't the faintest idea how to change it.  He slid off the bed and held the baby out toward the candles clustered on the table next to the bed, peering at his face. He was blonde, but had neither his mother's pale yellow, nor the burnished gold of his father's youth. The slight curl to it reminded him of Brienne's. He had Brienne's wide mouth. Jaime tilted the baby a little closer to the candles, trying to determine the color of his eyes.  He thought they might be green, but the candlelight made it difficult to discern. He bought the baby closer to his face, studying him. Searching for any hint of the cruelty that graced Tywin, Cersei, or Joffery's features. But there was nothing, save a curious expression as the baby reached for his father's nose.

 

Brienne stood in the shadows of the corridor for a moment, watching Jaime get acquainted with his son, then slipped into the neighboring chamber and set a tray on the table in front of the fire.  She quickly scanned the room. The bed was freshly made up, new candles on the table near the bed and in an alcove near the fireplace. A pottery jug full of water stood on the hearth, steam wafting from the surface.  A large basin with a cloth and a shard of soap, scented with laurel sat on a small table by the window. 'I am not ready for this,' she muttered, then spun on her heel and returned to her room and took the baby back from Jaime.  'Your chamber’s ready.’

 

'You might want to change the boy's nappy,' Jaime warned, as he retrieved his saddlebags and sword.  'I'll learn how to do that in the morning.'

 

'Breakfast is daybreak,' Brienne said stupidly, trying and failing to picture Jaime changing a baby's wet nappy.

 

Jaime took a deep breath and sketched a bow in Brienne's direction.  'Goodnight, Brienne.' He walked into the next room and set his things in the corner.  He could unpack his few bits and pieces tomorrow. But now, he wanted to wash away the road dust, eat, and fall into bed.  He poured the warm water into the basin, stripped off his clothes until he was naked, then removed the hook with a sigh. He dropped the cloth into the basin and pressed it to his face, then swiped it over the back of his neck and right shoulder.  He managed to wrap it around his stump, and run the cloth over his opposite shoulder and chest. The cloth went back into the water and Jaime swabbed it over his stomach, cock, legs, then feet. He crossed to his saddlebags and rummaged until he pulled out a pair of worn linen pants he used for sleeping.  Even though Tarth still held a hint of summer during the day, the nights promised a winter’s chill. He shrugged into a clean shirt, leaving the laces undone, then folded himself into a chair, letting the fire keep his bare feet warm.

 

The meal Brienne had managed to cobble together was simple.  Just bread and butter, a bit of cheese, and an apple. It was more than enough.  He ate slowly, sipping the mug of mint tea, then crawled into the bed with another sigh.  He turned on one side and closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come. He was painfully aware of the baby sleeping just a few feet away.  A child he'd fathered with Brienne, and Tyrion hadn't bothered to tell him in all the months he'd been recuperating at Storm's End.

 

Jaime rolled to his other side.   _A second chance_ , Tyrion had told him.   _Don't fuck it up._  

 

Brienne clearly mistrusted him.  He didn't blame her. He wondered if he'd made the right decision to come to Tarth.  Perhaps he should have continued North to the Wall after all and lived in blissful ignorance of his child's existence.  A lump formed in his throat. If she allowed it, he could be a father to this child, like he had never been to the others.

 

And Brienne.  She was everything he never pictured for himself.   _The big woman_ , Tormund had called her.  Most at home in riding leathers, breeches, and boots, and equally comfortable in armor, with a sword in hand.  She was utterly without guile. Nearly incapable of lying. She was blunt in her words and so earnest it was almost painful.  The exact opposite of his late sister. He flopped onto his back and covered his eyes with a forearm. To this day, he still couldn't explain his feelings for Brienne.  They ran counter to everything he’d ever learned at his father's knee.

 

As if his thoughts had conjured her, he could hear her singing.  Jaime lifted his head. The door to his chamber was slightly ajar, and Brienne was singing quietly to the baby.  He shoved the heavy blankets aside and went into the corridor. She paced slowly around the room, the baby in her arms, crooning a lullaby.  Was it something from her childhood? Had she learnt it at Winterfell from Podrick? And would she deign to teach it to him?

 

Jaime lurked in the doorway to Brienne's chamber, as Brienne finished one lullaby and started on another.   _Gods must not be through with you yet_.  Jaime never considered himself a thinker.  That was Tyrion's job. But he was meant to be here.  If only he could convince Brienne of the same. Jaime coughed lightly.  'Might I have a moment of your time?' Brienne bent to return the baby to his crib, but Jaime made a small gesture with his stump.  'No. Stay there.' He took a deep breath and padded into the room on his bare feet. He paused long enough to draw Oathkeeper from its scabbard, hoping the significance wasn’t lost on Brienne. He knelt, laying the sword gently at her feet. ‘I offer my services, my son.’  His eyes flicked up to meet Brienne’s. ‘I will shield your back.  And keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.’  He picked up Oathkeeper and slowly got to his feet, hip protesting. Jaime brushed his lips over the baby’s head. ‘And that is one vow I intend to keep,’ he said, giving Brienne a pointed glance before turning. ‘He’s my son, too.’  He sheathed Oathkeeper and left the room, leaving Brienne staring after him with a bemused frown.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne drew the blanket over the baby and added a few more sticks of wood to the fire. Northern habits died hard it seemed. She stuck a candle into a holder and lit it from one of the others already burning and then made her way through the dark passages to her father’s chambers. The door hung slightly open and unbolted. He was still awake, then. She knocked softly. ‘Father?’

 

‘Come in…’

 

Brienne opened the door just enough to ease through it and set the candle down. She shut the door and leaned against it. ‘We have a guest,’ she began.

 

‘Mira’s already said,’ Selwyn told her. ‘Said you put him in the chamber next to yours.’  He chuckled. ‘Brienne, you’re a woman grown. If you want to take a man to your bed, my girl, you needn’t sneak him in after dark.’

 

Brienne _tsked_ , and crossed the room, picking up a cushion from the pile in the window seat. She dropped it next to her father’s feet and sat on it, resting her head against Selwyn’s knee. ‘He’s the baby’s father,’ she explained, the corners of her mouth turning down.

 

‘I thought Jaime Lannister was dead.’  Selwyn felt Brienne flinch. ‘We heard the rumors, even here.  That the Maid of Tarth, a Defender of the Living had taken the Kingslayer as a lover.’

 

‘Oh?’ Brienne choked. 'And you haven't bothered to mention this before?'

 

‘Most discounted it as silly rumors,’ Selwyn continued.

 

‘Because no one would believe Jaime Lannister would ever want a lumbering cow such as myself?’ Brienne snarked.

 

‘Well…’  Selwyn shrugged and began to stroke Brienne’s hair. ‘Perhaps not quite so blunt.’  He sighed. ‘So there’s a man bearing Jamie Lannister’s face in my castle.’

 

‘Yes.’  Brienne wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them to her chest.  ‘I should have stayed in Winterfell…’

 

Selwyn grunted.  ‘To hide or because you genuinely desired to stay in the North?’

 

Brienne glanced up at her father. One of the few people who truly understood her. ‘I would have been hiding,’ she admitted reluctantly.

 

Selwyn kept his eyes on the fire, watching as a log collapsed, sending sparks flying up the chimney.  ‘Do you wish him to leave? I’ll have him trussed on his horse before dawn.’

 

Brienne shuddered, recalling the horrible days between their capture and eventual arrival at Harrenhal. ‘No.’

 

‘I can have him taken care of…  Boy’s only got one hand. Push him off the cliffs into the sea.’

 

Brienne sat up and glared at Selwyn. ‘No,’ she said firmly.  'You're better than that, to violate guest right.' She raked a hand through her hair.  ‘He swore an oath… to my… to _our_ son….  using my sword.’

 

Selwyn brushed it off. ‘Pah! Kingslayer, Oathbreaker… he’s not the sort to take vows seriously.’

 

‘I haven’t told you my sword’s name, have I?’

 

‘It has a name?’

 

‘The best swords do,' Brienne said absently, mind on a sunny day outside the walls of King's Landing.  'Oathkeeper. It was supposed to belong to Jaime, but he gifted it to me.’ She stood and bent to retrieve the cushion. ‘And he was there when I named it.’  She threw the cushion back into the window seat. ‘Never call him Kingslayer or Oathbreaker in my presence again.’

 

‘As you wish.’  

 

‘Goodnight, Father.’  Brienne walked to the door and left.  She never saw the knowing smile hidden in her father’s beard.  

 


	8. A Time to Gain

Jaime threw the bedding back and sat up.  It was some time yet until dawn, but he washed and dressed, knowing Brienne would fetch him as soon as the sun rose. Too restless to sit, he prowled slowly around the room, absently wondering if Evenfall had a decent bathhouse. His body ached from nights sleeping on the cold ground and that pathetic excuse for a berth on the boat from Gulltown.  He was on high alert and opened the door with alacrity at Brienne's light tap. 'I trust you slept well,' she stated.

 

'I've had better nights,' he admitted.  

 

Brienne led him down the spiral stairs.  'If you could tell me what was wrong with your chamber, I'll have Mira see to it today.'

 

'There was nothing wrong with the chamber,' Jaime replied.  'I have so many questions that I hardly know where to start.'

 

‘Pick one,’ Brienne grumbled. She hadn’t slept much either.

 

‘Where is Pod?’  Jaime had grown so accustomed to seeing Podrick follow Brienne everywhere like a faithful shadow, that his absence was jarring.

 

‘Kingsguard.’  Brienne stopped and opened a door and waited for Jaime to enter the small solar.

 

‘Who knighted him?’

 

‘I did,’ Brienne said grumpily.

 

‘You knighted Pod?’

 

‘Yes.  If you keep repeating everything I say, this is going to be a very long day, and I don’t have time for it.’ She indicated a small table already laid for breakfast.  Brienne yanked a bell pull and perched on a windowsill, waiting. A maid brought in a tray so quickly that Jaime wondered if she'd been stationed on the other side of the door.  The warm, yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the room, making Jaime's mouth water. Brienne waited for the maid to leave, then took one of the chairs. Jaime sat in the other one and pulled a roll from the cloth-covered basket.  Brienne poured cider for them both, but didn't touch any of the food. She studied Jaime instead. In the clearer light of morning, the lines bracketing Jaime's eyes and mouth were deeper than they had been a year ago; there was much more grey scattered in his hair and beard.  The haughty arrogance that had often danced in his eyes was gone. The golden lion of House Lannister was gone. In its place was something Brienne didn't recognize. 'Where were you?'

 

'Storm's End,' Jaime replied.  'I'm not quite sure how I came to be there, and the first month after I regained consciousness is something of a blur.'  He carefully tore the roll apart. 'A month before you gave birth, I was able to walk to the privy with the aid of a stick and burly manservant,' he added deprecatingly.  'Why have you not named the child?'

 

Brienne did snatch a roll from the basket then.  She began to methodically shred it into crumbs fit only for birds.  She refused to explain that it had been a fit of sentimentality that he would have said what he preferred from the afterlife.  'I haven't thought of anything appropropriate,' she allowed. 'If you're so inclined, perhaps you can think of something.'

 

'I'll try to come up with something that pleases you.'  Jaime rolled a bit of bread between his fingers until it was a doughy ball.  'Will you let me act as a father to… to… our son?' he asked hesitantly, fully expecting to be told no.  

 

'Why would that even be a question?' Brienne retorted.  

 

Jaime reached for the cup of cider.  'Last night was the longest I've ever held a child of my blood.'  He took a sip, then continued haltingly. 'She let me hold Joffery once.  A day or two after his birth. And just for the barest of moments.' He cleared his throat and took another sip of cider.  

 

Brienne took an apple from a bowl and peeled it, concentrating on removing the skin in one long strip.  'Of course. For as long as you remain on Tarth.'

 

'I told you last night that I want to stay.  If you'll have me, I want to make this my home,' Jaime said somewhat sharply.  'Given that, what is my role here?'

 

'Evenfall is not a grand house,' she muttered.  'Everyone here works.'

 

'Very well.  I expect to be put to where I can be the most use.'

 

'I train the sworn swords, morning and evening,' Brienne stated.  'The rest of the time I'm usually seeing to the needs of the estate with Father or the steward.  Father will decide what to do with you.' She dropped the apple on her crumb-covered plate and stood abruptly.  'Excuse me…' She left the solar, and nearly ran to the armory. The appearance of a resurrected Jaime Lannister had frayed her nerves to the breaking point.  How long would he stay on Tarth? One month? Two? How long before he grew restless with whatever role Selwyn assigned to him and left in the middle of the night?  What if he'd romanticized what it meant to be a father to his children so that when faced with the reality, he would grow bored with it? What would happen then?

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Jaime waited in the solar until he could no longer hear the clash of swords in the courtyard. Clearly something he said had upset Brienne, so he thought it best to give her a wide berth.   He passed the time by constructing a mental list of possible names for the baby, as Brienne had suggested, reliving the memory of his son's warm weight against his chest. He was still stunned by the revelation that he'd fathered a child with Brienne, and bewildered by Tyrion's decision to keep it from him.  He couldn't fathom why Tyrion would not only keep the baby a secret, but not tell Brienne he'd survived. His brother had much to answer for the next time he saw him. Given their circumstances, it would probably be in the afterlife, if such a thing existed.

 

When the commotion in the courtyard quieted, Jaime opened the solar door and peered down the corridor.  With the aid of a passing maid, he managed to find a way out of the castle and headed to the stables. Winter was due a thorough grooming, and while Jaime was sure the stable lad had done an adequate job settling the horse last night, he preferred to see to the care of his horses himself when he could.

 

Winter stood in a large loose box, whickering at Jaime's entrance.  The stables at Tarth weren't markedly different from those at Storm's End.  He nodded at a wizened man giving instructions to a stable lad and found a brush on a shelf.  He entered the box and examined it approvingly. Jaime tucked the brush under his right arm and rubbed the horse's nose, scratching under his forelock.  Winter shoved his nose into Jaime's chest, snuffling for carrots or apples. Jaime pulled an apple filched from the breakfast table from the pocket of his breeches, and held it out to Winter. 'Spoiled,' Jaime said severely.  Winter nickered and the apple disappeared. As the horse contentedly crunched his treat, Jaime began to brush him. He looked up when he heard footsteps approach, and a large man leaned his forearms on the box door. 'You must be Brienne's… guest.  Don't believe we've had the pleasure,' the man rumbled.

 

'Jaime Hill.'  After using it in various taverns and inns, it felt less alien on his tongue.

 

'Lord Selwyn Tarth.'

 

The brush slowed and stopped.  Jaime sketched a bow. 'My lord.'  He warily eyed Selwyn and studied the older man’s face. He recalled him from Robert Baratheon’s coronation. The Tarths were Baratheon bannermen, and as such, Selwyn had attended the event.  Selwyn was rather unforgettable, with his towering height and broad shoulders. He wondered if the Lord of Evenfall recognized him.

 

Selwyn gestured to Winter with his chin.  'Can you ride that nag or is it just for show?'

 

'I can ride.'

 

'Good.  Saddle the beast.  You can accompany me to the docks.  We'll talk.' Selwyn slapped the top edge of the stall door and strode away.  

 

Jamie looked at the horse in resignation.  'Why do I feel like I'm heading to an inquisition?'

 

Osric wheezed with sardonic laughter.  'Because y'are. Best get yer horse saddled, hadn't you?'

 

Jaime returned the brush to the shelf where he'd found it, and began the somewhat laborious process of saddling Winter.  The hook made it much easier than the golden hand, but doing everything with his left hand still felt wrong. Winter saddled, Jaime led him into the courtyard and swung up without embarrassing himself and met Selwyn at the gate.

 

They took the road Jaime hadn’t the previous day. It had a noticeable incline and when they exited the woods, Jaime was surprised to find himself on top of a cliff.  Selwyn slid off his large roan gelding, so Jaime cautiously did the same and joined the man to stand at the edge of the cliff. The road was ominously deserted. Selwyn stood, feet braced apart, letting the wind whip through his cloak.  'So... _Kingslayer_ …'

 

Jaime's heart skipped a beat, then sank.  He peered over the edge of the cliff at the surf crashing on the rocks below then glanced at Selwyn.   _He’s going to push me over the edge for dishonoring Brienne…  Guest right be damned._ 'If you're going to kill me, all I ask is that you make it a clean death.'  He paused, then blurted his favorite name from the list he’d created at breakfast.  'And name the boy Nikolas.' Jaime tensed, waiting for the inevitable shove between his shoulders.  

 

'Tempting prospect,' Selwyn said gruffly.  'But I'm not Walder Frey. I don't violate guest right.'  He tugged at his beard. 'Brienne'd have my balls if I did.'  

 

Jaime released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding with a _whoosh_.  'So she told you.'

 

Selwyn dismissed that with a wave.  'I knew the first time I laid eyes on the boy.  Favors you a fair bit. Some sires mark their foals more than others.'  Jaime ran his hand over his face. Selwyn snorted. 'I remember you, boy.  Standing in your white cloak at Robert Baratheon's coronation, a boy playing at being a knight.  Hadn't even shaved yet, had you?' Jaime shook his head, self-consciously rubbing his beard. Selwyn stared at the misty horizon, where they could just see the bulk of the Westerosi mainland.  'What's your story, boy? How do you explain how the lad comes to resemble a dead man?'

 

Jaime shrugged.  'Tywin Lannister spawned a bastard or two.'

 

Selwyn snorted.  'Tywin Lannister's devotion to his wife was legendary.'

 

'Were you faithful to Brienne's mother?' Jaime asked pointedly.

 

'We're not talking about me.'

 

'I never said it was love when Tywin fucked other women,' Jaime chided.  'I can be one of Tywin's bastards, born not long after Cersei and Jaime. My mother named me Jaime to twist the knife a little more every time someone in the Westerlands called me by the name of Tywin's trueborn heir.'

 

'Clever.  Enough truth that you won't get tangled in a lie.'

 

Jaime grunted.  'My brother's idea.  He's frighteningly clever at times.'

 

'How'd you end up North?'

 

'Fought with Stannis Baratheon.  Anything to fuck the Lannisters.'

 

Selwyn hawked and spat over the edge of the cliff.  'Fucking twat.'

 

'Accompanied Davos Seaworth to Castle Black to beg for reinforcements and didn't participate in the battle at Winterfell between Stannis and Ramsay Bolton,' Jaime recited.  'Met Brienne at Castle Black. She was there with Sansa Stark. Stayed North to fight with the Northern armies against the army of the dead. Marched south to lay siege to King's Landing.'  Jaime gave Selwyn a sidelong glance.

 

Selwyn grabbed Jaime's right wrist and lifted it so the hook was between them.  'How'd Jaime Hill lose a hand?' he asked dispassionately.

 

Jaime's brow rose.  'There was a war on.  Find someone who was not injured in battle.'

 

'Good enough.'  Selwyn turned his back to the mainland.  'What do you do when you're not gallivanting around Westeros?'

 

Jamie's mouth twisted wryly.  'I know fighting and horses.' He scuffed the toe of a boot in the tough grass that grew on the cliff.   'I’m tired of fighting. If I never see another battle, it will be too soon.’ He shook his head. ‘All Brienne ever wanted was to be a knight, and I won't take any part of it that she does here from her.  She's very good.' Jaime turned his gaze back to the sea. 'Much better than I ever was.'

 

'Saw that squire of hers when she came home.  Said she taught him everything he knew.'

 

'And now he's in the Kingsguard,' Jaime commented lightly.  

 

Selwyn clapped Jaime firmly on the back, making him stagger a little.  'Master of Horse needs someone who knows horses. You'll start tomorrow.'  He mounted his horse and considered Jaime thoughtfully. 'Better yet, you can start now.  Brienne needs a new mount. Osric wants to breed her mare.' Jaime swung into Winter's saddle and nudged him to follow Selwyn.  They rode in silence for several minutes. 'She'll be the next Evenstar,' Selwyn said idly. 'Even when you wed the girl.'

 

Jaime looked up in surprise.  'Good,' he replied neutrally. 'I never wanted to be the lord of Casterly Rock, and I'm not here to supplant her.'  He fixed Selwyn with a glare in his best imitation of Tywin. 'And I'll only marry Lady Brienne if she's willing. Not a moment before.'  


	9. A Time to Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind comments and encouragement. :) It's been truly enjoyable to write this. :)

Brienne stood near a window, listening to her father drone on about something to do with pigs.  She could hear delighted giggles from the meadow behind the castle. It rarely snowed any significant amount on Tarth, but she could recall the occasions when several inches of snow blanketed the mountains and valleys.  Snow had begun to fall last night, thick and fast. She'd awakened to find the area around the castle enveloped in a deep layer of snow. She let herself feel the same wonder she'd had as a girl at seeing the familiar lines of Tarth obscured by snow drifts deep enough for a proper snowball fight, despite the months she'd lived in the North.  Fat white flakes still floated from the sky, and the snow softened the edges of Evenfall Hall.

 

Jaime held a well-wrapped Nikolas on his hip, slogging his way through the drifts that came halfway to his knees.  Nikolas wriggled impatiently, and Jaime let him slide to the ground on a patch of grass near the gates that had been swept clean.  Nikolas grasped one of Jaime's fingers and the hook in his pudgy hands and toddled a few steps, lifting each foot high before setting it down.  His knees wobbled and he swayed alarmingly before his hands slipped from Jaime's. Nikolas landed heavily on his bottom. Jaime bent and picked him up before Nikolas could begin to cry, then swung the baby over his head before disappearing through the gates.   

 

'Boy needs a father,' Selwyn stated, making Brienne start.  She hadn't realized he was standing next to her.

 

'Like I needed a mother?' Brienne said coolly, recalling how for a period of years, Selwyn installed a series of mistresses in the castle, none of whom wanted anything to do with the stubborn, headstrong Brienne, who was more interested in learning how to throw a punch than sew in a straight line.  'Besides, he has a father.'

 

'You ought to marry the man.  Birth a few more babes while you're still fertile'

 

'I'm not marrying anyone,' Brienne ground out through clenched teeth, mortified.  'I have an heir.'

 

'Nobody's safe, my girl.  You should know better..'

 

Brienne dropped her gaze to the floor.  The crypt held the bones of her older brother Galladon, who'd died when he was thirteen.  She'd been eight. Galladon had drowned in a freak accident. She could still recall with vivid clarity Selwyn's rumbling voice telling her she was the heir now.  'My apologies,' she mumbled.

 

Selwyn heaved a sigh.  'It isn't weakness to let yourself feel for another person,’ he admonished.

 

'That's easy for you to say,' she murmured, then returned to the discussion of how many piglets they could afford to send to the mainland to sell.

 

She sought refuge in the armory once her father declared they cease their work for the day.  Jaime had proven to be a devoted parent. He was clearly besotted with Nikolas, and had been from the moment Brienne put the baby in his arms.  He'd learned, much to Mira's amusement, to change nappies, bathe Nikolas, and feed him porridge and stewed apples. He would even plop Nikolas in front of him on the saddle, Jaime's right arm clamped around his middle, and then hold Winter to a sedate, plodding walk around the meadow.  It hurt more than she liked to admit to see Nikolas reach for Jaime, when before he'd only reached for her.

 

'M'lady?'

 

Brienne looked up from the arrow she was fletching.  'Yes?'

 

'We can't find Nikolas.'

 

Brienne dropped the arrow and stood up.  'He's a nine month old baby.'

 

'His father came to fetch him after the midday meal,' the maid admitted. ‘We haven’t seen hide nor hair of ‘em since.’

 

'I'll find him,' Brienne told the maid, then strode from the armory and headed straight for the stables.  She heard Jaime's voice coming from the hayloft, and swiftly climbed the ladder to the loft. Jaime reclined on a  pile of hay, Nikolas draped over his chest, singing in a lilting baritone. 'In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours…'  He trailed off at the sight of Brienne sitting on the edge of the loft.

 

'What are you singing?'

 

Jaime looked slightly abashed.  '"The Rains of Castamere,”’ he admitted.  

 

'You can't sing that to a baby!' Brienne hissed.

 

'It's either that or bawdy tavern songs,' Jaime protested.  'It's all I know.' A sly grin played across his mouth. ‘You don’t want the boy’s first word to be “cunt,” do you?’

 

‘Not especially.’  Brienne massaged her temples. ‘I’ll… teach you some of the ones I know,’ she offered grudgingly.  ‘After supper in the solar.’ She pushed herself to her feet and approached Jaime. 'Is that… Is that your hook in his mouth?'

 

'He has a new tooth coming in,' Jaime countered.  'And I did wipe off the hook before I let him put it in his mouth,' he added loftily.

 

'With what?'  Brienne eyed the liberal dusting of horse hair on his sleeves and hoped it hadn't been his shirt.

 

'My shirt.'  Jaime glanced at the smudges of dirt and horse hair.  'It was cleaner when I used it to wipe the hook,' he told her defensively.  He managed to stand without dislodging Nikolas, and passed the baby to Brienne.  'He's dry, fed, content. It isn't wrong because it's not the manner in which you would do it.'  Jaime fished a rag from his pocket with his hook, and wiped the drool from Nikolas' chin. He couldn’t resist a parting shot as he set his foot on the first rung of the ladder. 'And you know as much about this as I do.’

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Jaime pushed the food around his plate, glancing occasionally at the main table, where Brienne sat next to her father, picking at her own dinner.  Someone -- he strongly suspected Brienne -- ensured his meat was cut into smaller pieces so he could eat without assistance. He'd settled into life at Evenfall with far more ease than he'd anticipated, even though his position within Evenfall was somewhat vague.  He slept in the family wing, but took his meals amongst the sworn swords. He was widely acknowledged to be Nikolas' father, but not wed to Brienne.

 

He'd loved Tommen and Myrcella, as much as he was able, but it was admittedly paled in comparison to the love he felt for Nikolas.  Jaime still marveled every day that he'd had a hand in creating something so innocent and pure. He might have missed the first six months of the boy's life, but he'd thrown himself into fatherhood with a level of enthusiasm he found alarming.  Every nappy he changed, every song he sang, every afternoon he spent hunched over while Nikolas clung to his finger and hook, manfully trying to walk, was a rebuke to Tywin Lannister. Perhaps it was unmanly, but after everything he'd been through to this point, Jaime didn't care what anyone thought.  It said more about them than it did about him.

 

And then, there was Brienne.

 

Most of the time, she treated him with a guarded wariness, as if he were a barrel of wildfire.  He desperately wanted to call a truce, but as she'd told him long ago, there had to be trust between them in order to have a truce.  Any trust she had in him was tenuous at best.

 

He watched as Brienne excused herself with a quiet word to Selwyn, then slip out of the hall.  Jaime pushed his plate to the side and waited until people began to drift into clumps, to sing, play games of chance, or gossip. He slid off the end of the bench and walked to the sideboard.  With a hasty glance around the hall, he slipped his hook through the handle of a jug of wine, and picked up two cups. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He stole along the corridor and up the stairs to the landing where he found Brienne pacing the perimeter of her chamber.  He used the jug to tap the doorframe. 'Brienne…' She paused, eyes wide. Jaime jerked his head toward his own chamber. 'Nikolas is asleep, and we should talk.' She straightened her spine and swept past him, head held high. Jaime motioned with his elbow to the door. 'Could you…?' Brienne opened the door and walked into Jaime's chamber for the first time since he'd arrived.  

 

Jaime set the jug and cups on the small table in front of the fireplace.  He poured wine into one of them and waved his hand at the other chair. 'Sit.  Or stand. As you wish.’ Brienne dropped into the proffered chair. Jaime lowered himself into the other one.  'You want me to leave,' he stated.

 

Brienne glanced upward, and her lips pressed together.  'Drink,' she said softly.

 

Jaime lifted the cup to his mouth, barely tasting the wine.  'Your turn.'

 

Brienne folded her arms protectively across her chest.  'You came here because you had nowhere else to go.'

 

Jaime poured wine into the other cup, and pushed it across the table.  'Drink.' He leaned back in his chair, watching Brienne take the barest sip of wine.   'You don't like me.'

 

Brienne rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands.  'Drink.' Jaime saluted her with his cup and gulped down a swallow of wine.  She ran a fingertip around the rim of the cup. 'You still prefer _her_.'

 

'Drink.'  Brienne's brows drew together, and she belted back half the cup, coughing when she set it back on the table.  Jaime sloshed more wine into her cup. The scent of blackberries wafted into his nose. He rubbed his finger over the table, tracing the grain of the wood.  'She was mad for power, rash, judgmental, spiteful, tyrannical, manipulative, vindictive… not nearly as clever as she thought she was. And when she chose to mislead the North about sending the Lannister army to help defend the kingdom against the dead…'  He gulped his wine. 'I always knew what she was. I always excused it, because I thought the ends would justify the means. I never wanted to admit what she was.' He shrugged. 'And when she refused to see that her plan to promise troops to the North, then renege on it would destroy everything, I couldn't excuse it any longer.'  He gazed at Brienne. 'I walked away. I did not _love_ her anymore.'  He coughed, then continued the game.  'You tolerate me for the sake of our son.'

 

'Drink.'  

 

Jamie set the goblet down after taking another drink.  'You resent Nikolas for what you've had to give up.'

 

Brienne's eyes hardened.  'Drink,' she snapped, but she also picked up her goblet and drained it.  'Only at first. Because everyone treated me like I was some idiotic, delicate _thing_ that suddenly lost all sense of reason.  And it reminded me of _you._  But never once he was born.'  She reached for the jug and refilled her cup, gulped it down, then swiped the back of her hand across her mouth.  'You only slept with me because you were drunk.'

 

'Drink,' Jaime ordered.  'I wasn't drunk, and neither were you.  And it was far more than just the one night.'

 

'Then it was just fucking because we survived.’

 

'Drink.'

 

'Don't lie,' Brienne hissed.

 

Jaime stood up and stalked to the window.  'I'm not.'

 

'But you still went back to _her_.'  

 

'Because I deserved to die!' Jaime shouted.  He lunged for his cup and gulped it down. ‘She was never going to surrender, no matter what anyone said. We came into the world together, we fucked it up together, and we should have left it together.  If we managed to survive Daenerys Targaryen’s attack on King’s Landing, and she was going to be tried and executed for her crimes, then I should have had to answer for mine and been executed next to her!’  He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘They would have held her… _us_.  Jon Snow would have insisted they wait, just so Sansa Stark could watch while they tried and executed the one person left alive who made her life a living hell.’

 

‘I imagine so,’ Brienne murmured.

 

‘Tyrion would have tried to intercede for me, to argue for the Night’s Watch instead of death, but that would be too merciful for the Kingslayer,’ Jaime continued. ‘If Sansa was there, you would be as well, and I did _not_ want your last memory of me to be my beheading at the hand of Jon Snow.’  Jaime poured more wine into his cup. The jug was getting dangerously low. ‘I tried to steal away in the night so you wouldn’t try and talk me out of it.’

 

Brienne lifted the goblet to her mouth.  She drank, but not as part of the game. She had to give Tyrion credit for creating a game that so easily tore open old wounds, but medicated them with wine.  'You _wanted_ to die,' Brienne stated, more calmly than she felt.  Jaime's anguished gaze never wavered as he drank.

 

The silence spooled between them, broken only by Nikolas' wail.  Jaime put down his cup. 'I'll get him.' He returned presently, cuddling Nikolas, pressing soft kisses to the baby's silky hair.

 

'You're very good with him,' Brienne remarked.  'You're much more patient than I am,' she admitted, swirling the wine in her cup.  'Why do you always stare at him so intently?'

 

Jaime returned to his chair, settling Nikolas in his arms.  He made as if to speak several times. 'Joffery,' he said in a bare murmur.  He looked up and half-shrugged helplessly. 'He should have remained a stain on the bed sheet.  He could outdo my father and sister with cruelty, which is saying something.  When you returned me to King's Landing, I learned the Kingsguard found a dead whore tied to his bedpost. He'd used her for target practice with a crossbow.  He was a monster.' He looked down at his sleeping son. 'And Nikolas' half-brother.' Jaime ran his fingertips over Nikolas' hair.  'The first time I held Nikolas, I looked for it. Trying to see if cruelty was part of my legacy.'

 

'I did that. When he was born.’  She leaned forward and brushed a lock of Nikolas’ hair away from his face.  'Wondering if that vindictiveness lurked in there somewhere.’ She gently ran the backs of her fingers over the curve of Nikolas' cheek.  ‘I didn't know Myrcella,' she said. 'But I remember seeing Tommen. He seemed to be his brother's opposite.'

 

'He was.'  

 

Brienne studied her hands.  'You can talk about them. With me.'

 

'I can't.'  Nikolas stirred and Jaime stood up and began to walk slowly around the room, patting the baby's well-padded bottom.  'She wouldn't allow me to know them. Not even as their uncle. So, no, I cannot talk about them.'

 

Nikolas stirred, whimpering and pushed at Jaime's chest.  He reached for Brienne, plucking fretfully at her tunic when she lifted him from Jaime's arms.  'I'll just…' She gestured to the door.

 

'Do it here.'  Brienne hesitated, looking around the room.  'Take the bed,' Jaime proposed. He propelled himself to his feet and grabbed the pillows, piling them against the headboard.  

 

Brienne toed off the sheepskin half boots she wore indoors and gingerly settled on the bed, pulling at her laces.  Nikolas moved restlessly for a few minutes then settled against her. Jaime wrapped his hand around one of the bedposts and sank to the foot of the bed.  'What are you doing?' she asked suspiciously.

 

'Watching…'  Jaime nodded to the door.  'I can leave.'

 

Brienne ducked her head.  'There isn't much to see.'

 

Jaime decided to take advantage of the cessation of hostilities.  'What was it like…? With Nikolas?'

 

'An unwelcome shock,' she replied bluntly.  'I was even more enormous than I already am.  It took two days for him to be born. And I damned you to the seven hells for most of it.'  She pulled her knees up. 'I hoped the Mother would let you tell me his name,' she confessed.  'As far as I knew, you were dead. So I prayed she would let you name him.'

 

'That's rather sentimental of you.'

 

'It doesn't happen very often,' Brienne shot back.  'Pod and I ran into your friend Bronn on the road to White Harbor.'

 

'He's not my friend.'

 

'He tried to take the baby.'

 

Jaime blanched.  'Whatever for?'

 

'Said he was owed something by the Lannisters and wanted to use Nikolas as a means to make Tyrion give it to him.'  She rubbed the side of her head, feeling the dagger fly by her head. 'Pod was off gathering wood, and Bronn didn't see him.  Pod shot him.' Brienne touched the center of her throat. 'An arrow just there.' She readjusted her hold on the baby. 'We left him to rot in the woods.'  Brienne transferred Nikolas to the other breast, hoping he didn't fall asleep in the middle of his feeding. A sudden image flashed through her mind, drawing Jaime's head down, his mouth closing around her nipple, gentle yet demanding.  'What?' Her head snapped up, heat flooding her cheeks. _It's the wine_ , she told herself.  

 

'I'm surprised it wasn't you,' Jaime said, looking at her strangely.  He wondered at the dazed look on her face.

 

'I was distracted,' Brienne explained, shame coloring her face.  Nikolas released her nipple and yawned widely, then smacked his lips, blinking sleepily.  Jaime slid off the bed and rounded the foot. He held out his arms. 'I can put him back in his crib.'  Brienne started to refuse, but laid Nikolas into Jaime's arms, wrapping her arms around her knees as he left his chamber.  

 

She climbed off the bed, and did up all but the top two laces, then added more wood to the fire, just to occupy her hands with something.  She picked up her cup and lifted it to her mouth, drinking deeply, feeling slightly raw. Jaime slipped through the door and closed it firmly behind him.  He closed the distance between them, and yanked his shirt over his head, letting it fall to the floor. His hand rose to her exposed collarbone, and he traced the three silvery parallel lines that ran over it with his fingertips before lowering his mouth to them.  Brienne gasped softly, and Jaime's lips skimmed up the side of her throat then settled over hers, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth, teasing and coaxing until her mouth opened.

 

Brienne pushed him away.  'What are you doing?'

 

Jaime froze, heart pounding.  'I don't… I don't really know.  My apologies.' Jaime stooped to retrieve his shirt, but Brienne's hand on his shoulder stopped him.  Scarcely able to breathe, she untied her laces and shrugged the tunic off her shoulders and arms. Jaime's hand threaded through her hair as he pulled her closer and kissed her.  Brienne's hands gripped his hips and she ground against him, nearly sobbing with the need to remove the rest of their clothing and feel his skin against hers. She fumbled with the fastening of his breeches, nearly tearing them in the process.  Jaime wrenched his mouth from hers. 'Wait…' he panted, stepping back. He struggled to remove his boots, then peeled off his breeches and smalls. Brienne let a hand trail down his chest, then over his hip. Her fingertips grazed over the curve of his arse as she drifted around him, drinking in the sight of him.  Even with the scars, he was still a beautiful man. Brienne cupped the warm weight of his balls, then drew a single fingertip up the underside of his cock. Jaime's breath caught and he groaned when she closed her hand around it, thumb skimming over the tip. He closed his eyes, and started mentally reciting all the Lord Commanders of the Kingsguard he could remember, lest he come in her hands.  He swallowed heavily. 'You're overdressed,' Jaime breathed.

 

'Am I?'

 

Jaime slipped his hook into the waist of Brienne's breeches and yanked her toward him.  He peered down at the laces, thankful she hadn't tied them in a knot the way she had in Winterfell.  He slowly pulled on one end of the laces, and the bow unraveled. Her loose breeches slithered down her thighs and pooled at her feet.  His hand spread over her belly, then meandered higher. She was still hard, taut muscle, just a little rounder from carrying Nikolas. His mouth hovered over hers, teasing with the promise of more, while his hand slipped between her thighs, fingers seeking the nub hidden there.  She inhaled sharply as his fingertip brushed over it. Jaime fitted his mouth over hers, swallowing her breathy moans. He took a step back, then another until the backs of his knees hit the end of the bed. He urged her to lie down, then nudged her thighs apart, pressing kisses to the soft skin, nuzzling the thatch of blonde curls between her legs.  His head dipped lower, tongue flicking everywhere but her clit. Brienne shifted restlessly, fingers clutching at the blanket. 'Please,' she whispered. One hand landed on the back of his head. 'Jaime, please…'

 

He slid a finger inside her, tongue tracing the shape of letters as deliberately as the day he'd learned to write them.  She convulsed, back arching into his mouth, fingers curled into the blanket.

 

Jaime stilled, then managed to maneuver himself so he was draped over Brienne's body, propped on his elbows.  She laced both hands in his hair and pulled him down, kissing him as deeply as she'd drunk earlier, the taste of her body on his lips and tongue.  She worked one hand between their bodies, and guided his cock so it was just inside her. All he had to do was thrust.

 

Jaime gazed at Brienne, taking in her heavy-lidded eyes, glazed with need and want, lips parted with anticipation.  'Are you sure?'

 

'Yes.'


	10. A Time to Lose

Brienne woke, slightly disoriented.  Everything was in the wrong place; she was in the wrong bed.  Jaime spooned against her back, enveloping her in a cocoon of warmth.  She shifted bit by bit until she faced him. He snorted softly, then burrowed into his pillow.  Brienne released the breath she'd been holding. He'd always been such a light sleeper before, but he continued to breathe deeply and evenly.  The lines etched in his face softened with sleep, making him look younger. Jaime thrashed a little and whimpered, his arm tightening around her waist.  The dream passed, and he resumed the regular and even breathing of deep sleep. She closed her eyes, and let herself remember the first time she'd felt safe with Jaime.  

 

_ Jaime strode through the ruins of Harrenhal and plunged into the herd of horses that made up the mounts for Locke's group of men.  He took the reins of the first horse he saw that was saddled, then led the horse to Brienne and handed her the reins. 'This is Locke's horse,' she informed him.   _

 

_ 'Too bad for him,' Jaime retorted.  'His horse must have bolted.' Brienne smirked and swung into the saddle, carelessly hiking her skirts to midthigh.  Jaime mounted his horse, and they left Harrenhal at a gallop.  _

 

_ After several miles, the small, dark man, Qyburn, approached Jaime.  'I insist we stop and tend to the lady's wounds.' _

 

_ Jaime threw a glance over his shoulder.  'We should put more distance between us and Harrenhal.' _

 

_ Qyburn frowned.  'Do you want the lady's wounds to fester, as yours did?' _

 

_ Jaime shuddered and guided his horse next to Steelshanks.  'We need to stop for a few minutes.' He gestured with his chin toward Brienne.  Steelshanks nodded and slowed his horse, then stopped. He pointed to Quyburn. 'How long will it take to see to her?' Steelshanks asked. _

 

_ Qyburn nudged his horse alongside Brienne, and studied the gashes the bear had left.  'As long as it takes to properly cleanse and dress the wounds.' _

 

_ Steelshanks sighed.  'Might as well stop for the night.'  He directed his men to set about making camp, to build a fire and fetch water.   _

 

_ Qyburn set off for the stream and returned with a small kettle full of water.  He set it next to the fire and rooted through his satchel. As soon as the fire crackled, he set the kettle over the flames, and waited for it to boil, then dropped a handful of herbs into the water and let it steep.  'My lady, with your permission?' Qyburn gestured to Brienne's neck. She nodded and lifted her chin. 'This will hurt,' he told her. 'These gashes are quite deep.' _

 

_ 'Doesn't matter.'  Brienne let a cold smile flash over her face.  'It means I'm still alive.' _

 

_ Qyburn dipped a cloth into the water and began to swab the wounds.  Brienne grimaced. He was right; it did hurt. Her eyes flicked upward at the sound of footsteps behind Qyburn.  Jaime stood there, eyes fixed on hers. She resolved to stay quiet and not make a sound. Night had fallen by the time Qyburn smeared a paste into the gashes and pressed a wad to lint to them, then wound a strip of linen around her neck to hold it into place.  'That will do for now,' Qyburn said. 'We shall change it in the morning.' _

 

_ 'Thank you.' _

 

_ Qyburn walked off and Jaime dropped the bedrolls under his arm to the grass.  One of the men brought Jaime and Brienne each a bowl of stew. 'M'lady. Ser Jaime.'  Jaime nodded and accepted the bowl of what proved to be rabbit stew. Another man thrust a bundle of woollen cloth at Brienne.  'Found this in the saddlebag on Locke's horse. You'll need it. Air's got a bite in it tonight.' She set her stew aside and unfurled a cloak.  Locke was somewhat smaller than she was, but it would serve. She pulled the cloak over her shoulders, and stirred the stew, but only managed a few bites before it threatened to come back up.   _

 

_ 'I imagine you'd like to burn that dress.  We'll see about getting you some proper clothes,' Jaime said, awkwardly spreading out the bedrolls and motioned to the one closest to the boulder where Brienne sat.  'You should get some sleep.' Brienne burrowed into it without argument. 'I'll keep watch,' he murmured. 'I won't let anyone else hurt you,' he vowed, surprised to find he meant it. _

 

_ She opened one eye.  'I trust you.' _

 

Brienne grazed her mouth over Jaime's nose, then over his lips.  His eyelids fluttered and opened. She kissed him, hand unerringly finding his cock.  It only took a few firm strokes to make him hard. Jaime rolled onto his back, bringing Brienne with him.  A few more languid caresses made him ache to be inside her. Brienne threw one leg over his hips and straddled him.  She leaned down and kissed him again, her fingertips just nudging his cock into her. Her hips undulated slowly and he slid into her, inch by excruciating inch.  

 

Brienne's eyes drifted shut as she rode him, shuddering with the incipient orgasm.  Her head fell back, and she came with a soft cry. Jaime pushed himself upright, and wrapped Brienne's legs around his hips, relishing the flex of the muscles in her thighs as she continued to move.  He wound his arms around her waist, lips tracing over the pulse that beat at the base of her throat. Brienne twined her fingers through his hair and guided his mouth to her breast. Her hips moved harder and faster.  Jaime pressed his forehead to her shoulder. 'Unnngh.' He grunted, unable to stop himself from spilling into her. Her arms and legs tightened around him and she grabbed his chin in one hand, forcing him to look at her, his eyes heavy lidded, while she came yet again.  'Gods,' Jaime breathed. Brienne shivered as Jaime's mouth worked its way over the slope of her breast, her neck. He kissed her, tongue stroking against hers while he tumbled back down to the pillows, bringing her with him. 'I'm not complaining,' Jaime said breathlessly, 'but what brought that on?'

 

'Bear pit,' Brienne mumbled sleepily, turning her face into the side of his neck.

 

'What?'

 

'Bear pit,' she repeated, her words slurred.  Jaime felt her left foot twitch, as it always did before she fell asleep.  She sighed and her body went limp.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne's eyes snapped open.  Rain pattered against the shutters.  She turned her head carefully on the pillow.  Jaime lay curled on his side, left hand resting next to his face, sleeping quite soundly.  She stared at the ceiling, turning over their conversation over and over in her head. 

 

_ You wanted to die _ .  He drank.  

 

She carefully slid one foot to the floor, then the other, and slithered out from under the blankets, stifling a gasp as her bare feet encountered the cold stone floor.  Brienne crept about the room, gathering her clothes from where they lay, crumpled in front of the hearth. She then eased the chamber door open, biting her lip when it creaked. Jaime continued to sleep. She slipped through the smallest opening possible and went into her own chamber. 

 

She grabbed the voluminous wrapper from a hook near the door of her chamber, and pulled it over her arms, then added more wood to the banked coals of the fire and checked the crib.  Nikolas sprawled under the heavy quilt, left hand next to his face. His cheeks were rosy with warmth and sleep. 

 

It was early.  Far too early for sunrise.  Hardly anyone would be awake in the castle.  Brienne gathered clean clothing and made her way to the bathhouse.  She cast a longing glance at the deep tubs, their hot spring-fed water steaming gently.  A pitcher and basin would do just now. The wrapper slid to her feet and Brienne knelt to fill a couple of large pitchers from one of the tubs, then carried them to a small grate set in the floor.  She threw a sliver of soap into a deep basin, poured in a generous amount of warm water, then upended the rest of it over her head. Brienne plunged a cloth into the soapy water and scoured every inch of her body, scrubbing at the stickiness between her thighs until the scent of Jaime on her skin was gone.  She quickly worked soap through her hair, then lifted the other pitcher and let the water sluice over her. 

 

She stood, naked and wet, seeing not the wall of the bathhouse, but Jaime's face as he confessed he left Winterfell for what amounted to a suicide mission.  She hurled the pitcher at the wall, trying to dispel the image and the thought that it might have all been much easier if he had truly died. 

  
  


<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

_ The bloody room is freezing,  _ was Jaime’s first thought as he woke up.  He wondered if he could persuade Brienne to play a child’s hand game to determine who had to get up and rebuild the fire. He opened his eyes, expecting to see her, but the other side of the bed was cold and empty. ‘Brienne?’  Jaime sat up. There was only one set of clothes lying in a heap on the floor. His. 

 

He wasn't bothered by her absence.  She'd done it often enough in Winterfell, leaving their bed first so as not to arouse more gossip.   _ You truly believe there are people here who don't know we're sleeping together? _ he'd once quipped while they sparred.  He shrugged and slid reluctantly from the warmth of the bed and hurriedly donned his breeches, lest his cock freeze and fall off.  Fortunately, they'd remembered to bank the fire before falling asleep. He added a few pieces of wood to the glowing coals, then sat back, and waited for the wood to catch before adding more.  Once the fire was hot enough, he heated water to wash. He dressed, listening to the rain lash the castle walls. Jaime eased a shutter open just enough to note the sheets of water falling from the sky, then promptly closed it again, already feeling the aches where the broken bones had healed, especially in his right shin where the end of the broken bone had pierced his flesh.  He wondered if he could persuade Brienne to join him in the bathhouse later that night. Jaime grabbed his cloak and headed down to the hall for breakfast, thinking of all the fiddly tasks they needed to do in the stables that were usually put aside for rainy days such as this. 

 

Brienne wasn't at her usual place in the hall at breakfast, but again, Jaime shrugged it off.  She didn't always eat breakfast in the hall, preferring to eat in the solar while she performed some of the more tedious tasks that fell to the lady of the manor.  He quickly ate, then ran as fast as he was able through the courtyard to the stables. Osric set him to sort through the tack, setting aside what needed repair, then gave him a couple of stable lads to give what remained a thorough cleaning.  A couple of kitchen boys brought their midday meal to the stables, rather than force everyone in the stables to make the mad dash across the courtyard back into the castle. Jaime ate his meal standing up. The sooner he finished in the tack room, the sooner he could track down Brienne.

 

When Osric finally declared the tack cleaned to his satisfaction,  Jaime began to search for the elusive Brienne. He found her in a small room off the armory, carefully making notes on a scrap of parchment with a sharpened stick of charcoal while she sorted through a pile of small sparring swords they used to train pages.  After the drowsy warmth of the stables, the armory was practically frigid. A brazier barely penetrated the chill and Jaime huddled into his cloak. 'Are we going to talk about last night?'

 

Brienne tossed a badly bent sparring sword onto a sheet of canvas.  'No. Because there's nothing to talk about.' She picked up the next sword.  

 

'Nothing?'

 

Brienne set the charcoal down and dropped the sword to the rickety table.  'It was only fucking,' she said dully, studying a smudge on the side of her middle finger.  

 

'Look me in the eye and say that,' Jaime retorted.  

 

Brienne's head reared back.  'It was only fucking,' she repeated, fingertips fluttering on the table, eyelids flickering.  

 

Jaime smirked.  'You're the worst liar in Westeros.'

 

Brienne shifted uneasily.  'It can't happen again.'

 

'Why not?'

 

'Because it worked out so well the last time you shared my bed,’ Brienne said caustically, then pressed her lips together into a thin line.  'It adds unnecessary confusion to our situation.'

 

Jaime opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  'Very well,’ he managed. He turned to leave, but stopped.  'You haven't forgiven me,' he stated.

 

'Don't be ridiculous,' Brienne snapped irritably.

 

'You haven't forgiven me for leaving Winterfell.'  Brienne stood and stalked toward the door. Jaime grabbed her wrist as she passed him.  'You haven't forgiven me.'

 

'Of course I haven't,' Brienne countered.  'Letting you fuck me doesn't change that.'

 

'You let me fuck you?' Jaime hissed.  ' _ You  _ fucked  _ me _ .'

 

‘Details,’ Brienne said coldly. 

 

‘What do you want from me?’ Jaime shouted. 

 

‘I don’t know!’  Brienne wrenched away from him and stalked into the muddy courtyard. The rain soaked her hair and into her cloak.  Last night's confessions deeply troubled her. If only it had been as simple as returning to the dubious affections of Cesei.  She could almost understand that. She had more trouble understanding the depth of self-loathing that would drive him to feel he was as vile a person as his sister, then lead him to believe the world was a better place without him in it.  ‘Why are you even here?’ 

 

‘I came here for you!’ Jaime responded hotly, following her into the downpour. ‘I stay for you. And Nikolas.’  He raked his hand through his wet hair.

 

Brienne laughed, but there was no humor in it. ‘Because it’s the honorable thing to do?’

 

‘Yes!’

 

Brienne stilled. She could feel rain dripping off the tip of her nose.  ‘What is honor?’ Jaime stared at her, the rain streaking over his face. ‘Did I dishonor myself by taking you, of all people, into my bed? By having a child outside marriage?’

 

‘You are the farthest thing from dishonorable,’ Jaime rasped. 

 

'You’ve done the same things as I have. And yet no one calls you a whore,' Brienne said acerbically. 

 

‘I thought you didn’t care what people thought about you,’ Jaime countered quietly. 

 

‘I don’t. It’s one thing for people to tell me I’m as boring as I am ugly,’ she spat. Jaime flinched slightly, as she flung one of his earliest insults to her at him. ‘Or to call me a blundering beast. Or laugh at me for wanting to do something other than marry some sorry excuse for a man and birth a brood of half-witted imbeciles.’  Her jaw worked for several moments as she collected herself. She was never going to cry in front of Jaime Lannister again, if she could help it. ‘But to question my honor? My son’s?’ She bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. ‘It’s all I have.’ She swallowed hard. ‘If the only thing keeping you here is a misplaced sense of honor and obligation, then go.’

  
  
  
  



	11. A Time to Cast Away Stones

Jaime leaned against the wall, shifting as unobtrusively as he could on the hard stool so as not to disturb the laboring mare.  He didn’t have to be in the stables for this.  He could be in his comfortable bed right now, but he’d avoided being inside the castle as much as possible.  Anything to avoid the quiet reproach in Brienne’s eyes.  Gods, but she was stubborn, nearly to the point of being unyielding at times.  After their explosive argument, Brienne had retreated into the aloof persona she’d had when Catelyn Stark passed him into her custody. She hadn’t restricted his access to Nikolas, however, something for which Jaime was grateful.  He tried to memorize every curve and hollow of Nikolas’ face, the sound of his laughs, the sturdy weight of the child in his arms.  He’d surreptitiously clipped a lock of Nikolas’s hair, the ends bound together with thread and tucked it away inside the incongruously delicate handkerchief he’d stolen from a cupboard in Brienne’s chamber.

 

Jaime hadn’t expected to find contentment in such a simple life.  But he had.  Deep down it was the kind of life he’d always wanted.  Away from the politics and machinations from the court.  Where nobody called him Kingslayer.  Or expected him to live up to a reputation based on his family name.  The horses only cared that he was on time with their feed and generous with the apples and carrots.  There was a pace and rhythm to his day, punctuated by the hours with his son.

 

He’d often wondered, in the interlude between wakefulness and slumber, what if he had done as Brienne had asked and stayed?

 

‘Foal’s not moving,’ Osric muttered, breaking into Jaime’s musings.  The mare’s whinnies grew louder and more agitated.  ‘Best see what the problem is.’  Jaime said nothing, but removed his shirt, yanking it over his head.  He’d left it unlaced on the chance the mare might need help.  ‘Done this before?’ Osric asked skeptically. 

 

‘A few times,’ Jaime admitted.  He’d been pressed into service a few times at Casterly Rock when he was a boy, and a handful of times in King’s Landing when he’d bred the few horses he’d brought from the Rock.  Osric grunted and smeared something oily over Jaime’s left arm.  Jaime carefully entered the box and knelt behind the mare, sliding his hand and arm inside.  A contraction squeezed his arm before he could get his hand on the foal.  _If Brienne’s labors were half as painful as this, I owe her an apology,_ Jaime thought, gritting his teeth until the contraction passed.  He could feel the head was turned in the right direction, but the hooves were side by side.  Another contraction gripped his arm.  He couldn’t imagine enduring this for two days as she had.  Jaime bit down on his lip, tasting blood, but vastly preferring a torn lip to disturbing the mare even further.  He moved one hoof so that the leg was extended further than the other.  The hoof pushed his hand out with the next contraction, and Jaime got to his feet and backed out of the box. 

 

‘Hot water back there.’  Osric jerked his head toward a brazier, where a large pitcher of water rested on top of it.  ‘Get washed and find your bed.  I got the rest.’ 

 

Jaime nodded and plucked his shirt up with his hook from the stool he’d vacated.  His left arm was coated with some of the less pleasant aspects of horse and the oil Osric had spread over his arm.  Another stool near the brazier boasted a rough square of burlap and a chunk of soap sitting inside a small basin.  Jaime quickly washed his torso, then donned his shirt.  The thought of climbing the winding staircase to his bed proved daunting.  He glanced at the sky through one of the windows.  It was still dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. Jaime headed for Winter’s box and curled under his cloak, on a pile of clean straw and fell asleep.

 

Jaime shoved at whatever was nosing his hair.  A horse whickered in his ear, and Jaime opened his eyes to find Winter standing over him.  He pushed himself to a sitting position and leaned against the side of the box.  Judging by the activity in the stables, it was well past their morning feed.  ‘My, how the tables have turned.’  Jaime squinted at the sight of Tyrion, face just visible over the edge of the box door, grinning smugly.  ‘It was usually me waking up in the stables or a dog kennel.’

 

‘What are you doing here?’ Jaime grumbled, finger-combing straw from his hair.

 

‘It's my nephew’s first name day,’ Tyrion proclaimed.  ‘I’ve brought him a gift.’

 

Jaime nodded, cobwebs beginning to clear enough to recall that Sansa had sent a raven informing them of Tyrion’s imminent visit a couple of weeks ago.  He slowly stood up, using the side of the box for assistance and stretched.  He gave Winter a pat, then opened the box door.  Jaime limped out of the stables, Tyrion beside him.  As soon as they stepped into the bright courtyard, Jaime spun and wound his fingers in Tyrion’s doublet, nearly lifting his brother off his feet and all but slammed him into a wall.  ‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t ram my fist down your throat,’ Jaime growled.

 

‘Because you love me,’ Tyrion rasped.

 

‘Why did you keep him from me?’

 

Tyrion pushed ineffectively at Jaime’s hand.  ‘Who?’

 

‘Nikolas.’  Jaime’s hand dropped, and Tyrion’s feet landed on the ground.

 

‘I didn’t know about him myself until just before he was born,’ Tyrion protested.  ‘And I see someone finally gave the boy a name.’  He straightened his doublet, smoothing the wrinkles left by Jaime’s fist.  ‘It’s about time, too.’

 

‘And once you did, at no time did you see fit to inform me,’  Jaime spat.  He strode away for a few paces, then doubled back.  He glowered at Tyrion, then shook his head, words colliding on his tongue, restraining himself from punching his brother’s nose into his skull.  ‘You lied to me,’ he managed.

 

‘I did no such thing.  I merely withheld information.’

 

‘Never meddle in my affairs again.  I am not one of your political schemes.’  Jaime hobbled away, desiring nothing more than to soak his aching bones and then sleep until dinner.

  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne folded her arms over the top of the door to the box that held the small, shaggy pony Tyrion had brought for Nikolas.  ‘I thought I said no to a pony as a name day gift.’

 

‘You said no such thing,’ Tyrion retorted.  ‘Not an outright refusal.  And Sansa chose it,’ he added, knowing Brienne wouldn’t refuse the gift if Sansa had a hand in it.

 

‘Why did you tell me Jaime died?’

 

‘Several reasons, none of which I have to reveal to you.’  Tyrion twisted, studying Brienne’s face, set in impassive lines that he knew concealed a host of roiling emotions.  ‘We thought he was going to die.  Especially the first few weeks after King’s Landing.  He was never conscious for more than a few minutes at a time, and when he was, he was delirious.  We couldn’t risk bringing in a maester.’  Tyrion leaned against the box door.  ‘If it had been known he was in the Red Keep during Daenerys Targareyan’s attack on King’s Landing, more than one of the Unsullied would have torn him limb from limb as her enemy.  So we told everyone he was dead.’  A muscle in his jaw jumped.  ‘I did it to protect what remains of my family.  Jaime was the only one who ever saw me as such, so I was willing to do whatever it took to ensure he survived.’  His chin lifted with a hint of defiance.  ‘I would do it again.’

 

Brienne exhaled forcefully.  Her interactions with the Unsullied had given her the impression that they made her look flexible.  She had to grudgingly admit Tyrion had been in the right as far as making Jaime Lannister’s death official.  ‘Why did he come here?’  She eyed her hands, picking at a broken fingernail, cringing at the forlorn tone of her voice.

 

‘You would have to ask Jaime, but considering you’re not speaking to one another, that might prove difficult.’

 

‘Did you tell him I’d left Winterfell?’

 

Tyrion winced inwardly, and schooled his face into the mask he’d worn at court.  ‘No,’ he said.  ‘Nor did I tell him where you’d gone.’  The three word note he’d sent to Jaime certainly hadn’t revealed Brienne’s definitive location.  Brienne gazed at the pony, hands gripping the top rail of the box door so tightly, Tyrion wondered if she had splinters embedded in each fingertip.  ‘Why aren’t you speaking to one another?  He won’t breathe a word, and he’s only spoken of his departure from Winterfell in broad terms.’  Again, another tiny lie. 

 

Brienne frowned.  ‘You’ll have to ask him,’ she said evenly and left the stables.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

‘That child is filthy,’ Tyrion commented, eyeing the smudges on Nikolas’ clothing and face. 

 

Jaime shrugged.  ‘So I’ll give him a bath before handing him over to Brienne.’  He bent and briskly brushed the bits of dry grass and dust from Nikolas’ bottom

 

‘How do you do it?’ Tyrion asked, watching Jaime hoist Nikolas to his hip. 

 

‘Do what?’  Jaime pointed to a vaguely horse-shaped rag doll in the grass.  ‘Do you mind picking that up?  He’ll scream bloody murder if it isn’t in his crib when he goes to sleep.’

 

Tyrion grabbed the horse, brushing bits of hay off it.  ‘You and the boy.’

 

‘It’s easy enough,’ Jaime replied.  ‘I think of what Tywin Lannister would have done.’  He grinned slyly.  ‘Then I do the exact opposite.’  He began the trek back to the castle.  Winter was coming.  He could feel it in the winds that came from the north.  Not the long, unrelenting winters of his youth, but a season out of legend that only lasted a few months and not years.  He wondered if it had something to do with the defeat of the Night King, but that kind of thinking was Tyrion’s specialty, not his.  ‘Why do you ask?’  He nudged Tyrion in the ankle with the toe of his boot.  ‘Have you consummated your marriage yet?’ 

 

‘That is none of your business,’ Tyrion said stiffly. 

 

‘Says the man whose appetites in bed once rivaled Robert Baratheon’s.’  Jaime chuckled at the glower Tyrion sent him.  ‘Is your wife expecting a child?’

 

‘No.’  Tyrion squeezed the rag doll.  ‘Soon, I -- we -- hope.’  He watched Jaime smooth his hand over Nikolas’ hair.  Tyrion had overheard some of the maids whispering amongst themselves that Brienne was going to bring ruin onto their heads, and no decent person would consent to work in such a household.  She’d brought that Jaime into the house, and now he was making preparations to leave.  They’d whispered about it being the blood of the Tarths.  How their mothers and grandmothers told them about Selwyn’s string of mistresses that stayed in the lady’s chamber, some longer than others, but never more than a year.  Tyrion didn’t know whether to believe what he saw in front of him -- that Jaime clearly adored his son and made a far better father than theirs had ever been; or what he’d heard when he was obviously not meant to hear it.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

Jaime walked into his chamber to find Tyrion sitting at the table in front of the fire with a jug of wine and two cups.  ‘Would you care to explain _this_?’ Tyrion asked, nudging one of Jaime’s half-packed saddlebags with the toe of his boot.

 

Jaime threw himself into the other chair.  He indicated the jug of wine, condensation gathering on it.  ‘No game tonight.  Only drinking.’

 

Tyrion poured wine into each cup.  ‘Very well.’  He motioned to the saddlebags.  ‘Why?’

 

‘I’m leaving with you.’  Jaime quickly downed his wine and reached for the jug.  If truth could be found in the bottom of a jug of wine, then so could oblivion, and he found he badly needed the latter in order to continue this conversation.

 

‘What does Brienne say about this?’  Tyrion hadn’t missed the glances they sent when the other wasn’t paying attention. 

 

Jaime set his cup down.  ‘I don’t know.  I haven’t informed her yet.’

 

Tyrion frowned.  ‘How do you _feel_ about her?’

 

‘It’s complicated.’

 

‘It’s not. It’s a simple as do you love her?’

 

‘Do you love your wife?’ Jaime challenged, as he took another swallow of wine.

 

‘There is a great deal of respect between us.’  Tyrion held his cup up and examined the vines and leaves engraved on the sides. ‘My situation with Sansa is vastly dissimilar to yours with Brienne. Father forced us to marry. You chose Brienne.’

 

Jaime finished the wine in his cup and idly spun it on the table. ‘I know enough to know I shouldn’t stay with her,’ he allowed. ‘She deserves better than one such as me.  All I’ve ever done for her is tarnish her once-sterling reputation.’

 

‘And given her a child.’

 

Jaime splashed more wine into his cup.  ‘A child born on the wrong side of the sheet,’ he corrected.  ‘Another black mark on her name, courtesy of me.’  He drained the cup.

 

‘And where do you intend to go this time?’ Tyrion inquired. ‘The last we spoke about this, Penthos was not an option, and neither was Winterfell.’

 

Jaime inspected the contents of the jug and poured more wine into his cup. ‘The Wall still exists, does it not?’

 

‘It does,’ Tyrion said shortly. Jamie gave him a significant look over the rim of his cup. Tyrion clapped a hand over his mouth before he could spew wine done the front of his doublet. ‘But you hate the fucking North,’ he spluttered, wiping wine from his chin. Jaime remained silent. ‘Jaime Lannister would never agree to this.’

 

‘Jaime Lannister no longer exists,’ Jaime reminded his brother sharply.

 

‘Oh. So you’re just going to toddle off to the Wall, take the black, and abandon your son?’

 

‘Don’t,’ Jaime snarled softly, distress sharpening the edge of his voice.

 

‘Do you even know what it’s like on the Wall?’

 

‘Cold enough to freeze my balls off, I imagine.’

 

‘And your cock, too. Good thing you won’t be needing them there.’  Tyrion sat back. ‘Are you planning to send a raven to Tormund Giantsbane? To inform him the big woman no longer has you to stand between them?’

 

‘If that’s your attempt at humor, it’s not very funny,’ Jaime commented darkly.

 

‘Don’t you think you’ve atoned for your sins enough?’ Tyrion asked.

 

Jaime gulped a swallow of wine. ‘Evidently not.’

 

Tyrion slid off the chair and rounded the table to where Jaime sat. He jabbed him in the chest. ‘Are you going to go beyond the Wall?  Hmmmm?  Crawl into a cave and freeze to death?’

 

‘No.’ Even as he rejected the idea, it appealed to the darker corners of Jaime’s mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d contemplated suicide.  Brienne -- or the memory of her -- had always brought him back from the brink before.  Even now, men didn’t grow old on the Wall.  Winter’s grip might have been broken, but the Wall was still a cold and forbidding place.

 

Tyrion’s hand curled into a fist, ready to give Jaime the good clout over the head that he sorely needed.  But Jaime wasn’t a child who needed to learn manners.  ‘I’ve never in my life seen you run away from a fight.  You’ve usually charged straight into the battle, sword swinging.  Why are you giving up and running away now?’

 

Jaime poured the last of the wine from the jug into his cup.  ‘I’ve been fighting it for six months.  I have no hope of winning this, so I yield.’  He tilted the cup over his mouth and drank it in a single gulp.  ‘Now get out,’ he rasped, ‘and leave me be.’

 

‘I never thought I’d see the day when you admitted to being a coward.’  Tyrion stomped from the chamber, slamming the door behind him. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have noticed the chapter titles come from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, made famous by the Byrds and their song "Turn, Turn, Turn." Usually, there isn't a need to explain, but the phrase, "to cast away stones," is different. There are a lot of different interpretations, but some say that a man has gathered stones together, intending to build something, but due to circumstances -- either unforeseen or of his own making -- scatters them again, because he no longer has the will or desire to build.


	12. A Time to Every Purpose

‘Brienne.’

 

The library at Evenfall was dark. A single candle burned in front of Brienne. The scratching sound of her quill ceased. 

 

Jaime’s hand clenched repeatedly, as if trying to settle his grip on the hilt of his sword. There was no sneaking away in the middle of the night this time.  He walked to the table Brienne occupied and sat heavily on the edge of another chair. ‘When Tyrion leaves, I intend to leave with him.’  Brienne said nothing, but her brows drew together with her habitual inscrutable frown. Jaime drew in a deep breath. ‘And then I shall continue North. To the Wall and take the black.’

 

Brienne eyes met Jaime’s, but she still remained silent. 

 

‘You don’t need me. Nikolas doesn’t need me. You’re more than capable of raising our son to be an honorable man.’  Jaime scrubbed his hand over his face. ‘I never once thought about the repercussions for you if I came here.  I only thought about myself and what I wanted.  It was selfish.  It was a mistake for me to come here.’

 

He lifted his hand and nearly touched her face before letting it fall.  Jaime took a moment to collect himself, then stood and carefully wound his way through the darkened room. He was nearly to the door before Brienne spoke. ‘Was it?’

 

‘I do not enjoy causing you pain.’  Jaime cleared his throat. ‘It seems my presence here has done nothing but hurt you,’ he added thickly. 

 

‘You swore an oath to Nikolas,’ Brienne reminded him. 

 

‘We both know how well I’m able to keep an oath,’ Jaime retorted bitterly, and walked out of the library.

 

Brienne threw the quill down.  ‘Fuck Jaime Lannister,’ she muttered, and dug her thumbs into the ridge under her eyebrows, then wildly swept the ledger, inkpot, and quill off the table to the floor.  The brass inkpot hit the stone floor with a _clang_ that echoed in the empty library, followed by the fainter splattering sound of ink splashing on the tiles.  She shoved her chair back so hard, it toppled over; grabbed the candle from the table, and then strode furiously from the library.  Her feet carried her straight to the armory, the place she always sought in times of distress.  She wanted to fetch Oathkeeper from her chamber, but she didn’t want to wake Nikolas or cross paths with Jaime.  Or her father.  Or Tyrion.  

 

She pulled her customary sparring sword from the rack with both hands and brought it down on one of the pells with a savage blow, picturing Cersei’s head as she did so, again and again. Would Jaime never be free of her?  She couldn’t deny Jaime had done horrible things, but he’d paid dearly for them in the end.  His sword hand.  The deaths of Tommen and Myrcella, innocents caught up in schemes designed to cause as much pain as possible.  Losing his name and position.  The Kingsguard.  Casterly Rock.  Spending the rest of his life hoping nobody recognized him.  Penniless.  He owned nothing except his horse, sword, and the clothes on his back.

 

If she couldn’t persuade him to stay, then once he took the black, he would lose Nikolas, as well.

 

Sweat made her palms slick, and the unthinkable occurred.  Brienne lost control of the blade.  It went skittering across the packed earthen floor, and she slowly became aware of the fine tremors that ran down her arms and across her shoulders.  How long she had hacked at the pell, she did not know.  Brienne examined her hands, long since toughened by handling a sword, but nevertheless, reddened with blisters beginning to form at the base of her fingers under the calluses.  She trudged across the armory to retrieve the sword and replaced it in the rack.  

 

Brienne slid bonelessly to the floor, folding herself into a ball. Words were always difficult in the best of circumstances.  Words took a jumble of feelings and turned them into razor-sharp daggers that cut indiscriminately.  Putting words to her emotions was insurmountable.  Her feelings were far more complicated than she could hope to verbalize. Words had already failed once before.  

 

She dragged herself to her feet and plodded to her chamber, then crawled into her bed, fully dressed, for what would prove to be a sleepless night.  She rose with the sun and bathed her gritty eyes in cold water before dressing for the day, her hands stiff and clumsy.  She scooped a sleeping Nikolas from his crib and carried him down to the solar. She tucked him into the trundle bed next to the desk and built up the fire.  Once assured that Nikolas continued to sleep, she made her way to the library and found the ledger wedged under a table.  She just managed to pick it up using both hands and returned to the solar. She hated doing the household accounts, but Selwyn insisted she take over the task, claiming she would learn more about the condition of the estate that way.  Brienne flipped the ledger open and reached for one of the quills on the desk, losing herself in columns of numbers.  She barely acknowledged when Mira came in to collect Nikolas and didn’t notice when a maid left her breakfast on a tray.  The porridge congealed into a gluey mess and her tea grew cold.  

 

‘You’ve neglected your breakfast,’ Tyrion said from the door

 

Brienne didn’t lift her head.  ‘I’m not hungry.’

 

Tyrion closed the door and crossed to the desk and peered over the edge at the ledger.  ‘Household accounts.  How domestic of you.’

 

‘Numbers don’t lie,’ Brienne muttered.

 

‘Has Jaime spoken to you?’ Tyrion asked suddenly.  Brienne’s fingers convulsed on the quill, snapping it in two.  ‘I’m going to assume that is a yes.  You cannot let him go to Castle Black.’

 

‘He is a man grown and I cannot force him to do something he clearly does not want.’  She threw the broken quill into the fire and plucked another quill from the cup that held the spares and the penknife from the stand.  She began to carefully sharpen the nib to her liking.  ‘I don’t fancy competing with death for the rest of my life.’

 

‘You’re as stubborn as a bloody goat,’ Tyrion snapped.

 

‘This is not new information,’ Brienne retorted.

 

Tyrion dragged a hand down his face. ‘When Jaime spoke of you, he always mentioned your tenacity. Said there was never a fight you from which you would run.  Always said it in admiration.  And now you’re not even bothering to try.’

 

‘I humiliated myself by begging once before. I refuse to beg again.’  Brienne dipped the quill into the ink pot. 

 

‘No one is asking you to beg,’ Tyrion said in evident exasperation. Brienne felt a twinge of pity for him, caught between the not inconsiderable obstinacy of both her and Jaime. He clambered into the chair opposite hers and slammed the ledger shut. ‘I need you to listen to me,’ he said, glaring at the top of Brienne’s head until she looked up. ‘Good. Now that I’ve got your attention.  Jaime was always a good lad, especially when he wasn’t with our sister.  Or our father, actually.  That smug arrogance you saw when you first encountered him came later.  He changed when he donned the white cloak of the Kingsguard.  Even so, even when he was at his most arrogant and cruel to other people, he never treated me with anything less than love and respect.’

 

‘Is there a point to this?’ Brienne interrupted.

 

‘There is.’  Tyrion selected a quill and toyed with it.  ‘After he was slapped with the moniker Kingslayer, he felt he never deserved anything good again.  He still believes that.  And that includes surviving when he ought to have died.’  He dropped the quill and leaned forward.  ‘The only person who could convince him otherwise is you.’

 

‘I can’t.’

 

‘Why the bloody hell not?’

 

Brienne stood and turned to the fire, poking at it savagely.  ‘That would require forgiving him.’

 

Tyrion leaned back in the chair, fixing Brienne with a penetrating glare.  ‘Withholding forgiveness is akin to drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.  It only hurts you in the end.’

 

‘And I suppose you’re the expert,’ Brienne said evenly, adding a stick of wood to the fire.

 

‘Yes.  I am.’  Tyrion ran his fingers through his beard.  He’d forgiven Shae long ago.  Somewhere between Volantis and Meereen.  ‘I could forgive Cersei or Tywin.  Even though they are dead.  And the one thing that prevents me from doing so is knowing they would never do me the same courtesy.  I might decide one day to just stop trying and live with it.’  He shifted in the chair.  ‘But we’re not talking about me.  You don’t forgive Jaime, so you can have an excuse to keep your distance from him.  That way he can’t hurt you.’

 

‘What would you know about it?’ she shot back waspishly.

 

‘More than you know,’ Tyrion replied cryptically.  ‘I’m not asking you to forget every terrible thing he ever said or did to you.’  He slid off the chair.  ‘Just to forgive him for being an imperfect human, like the rest of us.’  He started to make his way to the door.  ‘Jaime is worth fighting for.  I know it, and more importantly, so do you.’  He put his hand on the latch.  ‘He said you were braver than anyone else he knew, including himself.’  Tyrion opened the door.  ‘Prove it.’  

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

The door to Jaime’s chamber opened and closed.  It was his habit to go to the bathhouse after nearly everyone else had retired for the night.  He preferred the solitude.  It was a routine he’d developed at Winterfell to avoid the stares and whispers.  Brienne eased her own door open a mere crack, and waited for his footsteps to fade.  She methodically removed her clothing and slipped a voluminous wrapper over her shoulders.  She glanced in the direction of the crib to reassure herself that Nikolas slept soundly, then sidled through the door and headed to the kitchens, where she filled a jug with wine and took two cups from a shelf.  She paused on the threshold, grip tightening on the handle of the jug, feeling a sense of trepidation.  What she was about to do could fail spectacularly.

 

The door to the bathhouse was unbolted.  Of course it would be this late at night, when there was little chance of anyone else using the baths.  Brienne used an elbow to push the door open.  It swung forward silently on well-oiled hinges.  She left her sheepskin boots at the door, and padded into the room, the sound of dripping water echoing loudly in the stillness.  Hoping she wasn't about to make a fool of herself, Brienne set the cups and jug on the edge of the sunken tub, then shrugged out of the wrapper.  Her cheeks burned, but it had nothing to do with the heat of the water as she stepped into the tub Jaime occupied.  

 

'There's another tub,' Jaime told her wearily.  

 

 _What did he say when he climbed into my tub?_ Brienne furiously sifted through her memories.  That night had been seared into her brain.  She could recall every word, every inflection, and every facial expression.  'This one suits me fine,' she murmured, turning to the wine, pouring cups for them both.  'Truce?' she asked, holding a cup to Jaime, who took it with a puzzled frown.  'We're not fighting,' he huffed.  'And you need trust to have a truce.  And you don't trust me.'

 

'Drink.’'

 

'Drink,' Jaime echoed sharply.  'That's what you're doing, isn't it?  Tyrion's bloody game?'

 

'Truth exists in an empty jug of wine.  Or at the very least, it loosens the tongue.'  Brienne set her cup aside.   ‘I trust you,’ she insisted.  ‘Drink.’  Jaime sipped the wine, eyes narrowed.  `Your turn.`

 

'You still think I'm a good person,' Jaime muttered.  Brienne lifted the cup to her mouth.  'Your turn,' he sighed.

 

'You still think you're a hateful person on the same level as your damned sister.  And you loathe yourself for it.'  Jaime bent his head to avoid Brienne's piercing gaze, then drank.  'Even now?' Brienne asked.

 

'Didn't you hear me last night?' Jaime retorted.  'I'm a selfish, useless bastard.'  He gulped the wine in his cup.  'When I left Storm's End,  I had resolved to go North to the Wall and join the Night's Watch.  I got as far as the Riverlands before I turned east and made my way here.  And not once in all the time I spent on horseback or on the boat from Gulltown did I ever ask myself how you might feel if I appeared on your doorstep one day, miraculously back from the dead.'

 

'It took months to learn how to live without you,' Brienne said into her cup.  'Months where the mere thought of you felt like someone knocked the breath out of me.  Or sent me into a blind rage.'  She drained her cup and refilled both hers and Jaime's.  'I don't know that I can forgive you yet for leaving Winterfell the way you did,' she acknowledged.  'I understand your rationale for doing so, though.’ 

 

'Then why keep me at arm's length?'

 

‘You felt death was a preferable alternative to life, even with someone as boring as they are ugly.’

 

'Drink,' Jaime interrupted softly. ‘Could you please forget I ever said that?  You are neither boring, nor ugly.’

 

Brienne sipped the wine without tasting it, then plowed on.  'My entire life people ridiculed me.  Mocked me.  Thought less of me.  Thought I had no feelings, so it never mattered what they said to my face.  And you left, even after I begged you not to.  Regardless of the reason, it was still rejection.'

 

'Drink,' Jaime interjected.

 

'What?'

 

`Drink.  It was never a rejection of _you_ or anything about you.  I was trying to be honorable for once in my life, and answer for my crimes.’  He sank a little lower into the water. ‘It was what you would have done, had you ever committed any.’

 

‘You paid for them,’  Brienne told him quietly.  ‘Your older children died.  You lost your name, your birthright.  The Kingsguard…’

 

Jaime finger-combed his hair from his forehead.  ‘You lost the Kingsguard because of me.’

 

‘I did not lose something I never had.’  She ran her dripping hand through her hair.  ‘I had a choice, and I chose Nikolas and Evenfall.  You had no say when you were forced out of the Kingsguard.’  Brienne took a drink, and leaned against the side of the tub, watching the reflections of the light from the oil lamps off the water dance across the ceiling.  'You saw me, eventually. When everyone else only saw a freak. Or a misfit.  She moved to face Jaime. ‘You saw me.’

 

‘I could say the same thing about you,’ Jaime murmured. ‘All anyone ever saw when they saw me was the Oathbreaker. The Kingslayer.  The man without honor.  You saw what I could be.’  His brow furrowed. ‘Everything I’ve ever done that was good, honorable, or decent was because of you.’

 

'Don't leave with Tyrion,' Brienne said.  'Stay.  Stay with me.  Stay with Nikolas.'  One hand rose from the water, and she laid it along his jaw, thumb skimming over his cheek.  'Stay, because despite everything, neither of us has ever asked the other to be something they are not.'  She closed the distance between them and brushed her mouth across his, then turned and climbed out of the tub.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

Jaime slipped out of the castle, eyes gritty and burning from sleeplessness.  He'd never been very good with words.  He was capable of turning a fine phrase every so often, but giving words to his feelings was often a bridge too far.  Brienne wasn’t the sort to respond to flowery declarations of affection as it was.  Even the plain, forthright words he considered and rejected throughout the night felt insincere. He hoped the bracing morning air would clear his head. 

 

As he rounded the castle could just make out the pale smudge of Brienne’s hair against the grey light of the gloaming, sitting on a log at the edge of the cove.  He wondered if she'd been born at dawn.  It drew her outdoors like a lodestone.  He trudged through the dewy grass toward her, and joined her on the log.  'Do you want marriage or…?' he blurted. 

 

Brienne gave him a look of pure disgust.  'No.'

 

'Is it the idea of marriage or marriage to me that’s so distasteful?’  

 

Brienne shuddered.  'It's the _wedding._ ’  She leaned against Jaime slightly, so their shoulders touched.  'You know as well as I that wedding ceremonies in the Faith of the Seven are long, arduous affairs.  It might as well be torture.'  She made a soft gagging noise.  ‘My father handing me off to you like I’m a bloody broodmare. You cloaking me in your protection...' she spat derisively.  'I don't need your protection.'

 

'I'm more likely to need _yours_ ,' Jaime chuckled.  

 

'I'd rather fight the wights again that have a bloody wedding.'

 

'Right, then.  No wedding.’ Jaime let his hand rest on the log next to Brienne’s, his smallest finger grazing against hers..  ‘We have neither done what's been expected of us before, so why start now?'  He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.  ‘But marriage?’

 

‘You do know what marriage entails?’

 

‘You do up my laces, I undo yours,’ Jaime smirked, earning a hard nudge in the ribs from Brienne.  He sobered and drew in a deep breath.  ‘I swear an oath to you.  To be yours -- and only yours -- until the end of my days.’  He gazed over the deep blue water.  ‘I’m not very fond of anything to do with the Seven, if we’re being completely honest.  Not since…’  His voice broke slightly.  ‘Not since Tommen.’

 

‘I can’t say I blame you.’

 

Jaime turned so he straddled the log.  ‘Turn round,’ he said, pushing at Brienne’s knee.  She copied his actions so they faced one another.  ‘There is one oath I know.  You know it, too.  It should suffice for two such as us.’  He took Brienne’s hand and gently kissed the palm.  ‘I offer my services, Lady Brienne…’

 

‘Ser Brienne,’ she interjected.

 

‘ _Ser_ Brienne,’ Jaime amended, then paused, looking expectantly at Brienne.

 

‘I offer my services, Ser Jaime…’  Brienne inhaled slowly and continued, Jaime joining her, eyes locked on one another.  ‘I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be.  I swear it by the old gods and the new.’  She slid her other hand under his stump.  He hadn’t yet donned the hook.  Brienne’s fingers closed around it, and her thumb brushed over the scars.  ‘And I vow you shall always have a place at my hearth,’ they said quietly in unison.  ‘And meat and mead at my table.  And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor.  I swear it by the old gods and the new.’

 

Brienne leaned forward and shyly kissed Jaime.  ‘Until the end of my days,’ she murmured against his mouth.  Their fingers twined together.  ‘Until the end of my days,’ he repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of this particular story... You will see glimpses of their future together in Spring Returning.


End file.
